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AUTHOR: 


SAUNDERS.  EMILY 
SUSAN  GOULDING 


77  7  /.  / 


J     I 


ITALY  AND 


"VV  '.^.'  C-:^'^'-"^-'. 


CAPITAL 


PLALI  : 


LONDON 

DA  TE : 

1868 


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Class    (]4-S.0\  Book     ggl^ 

Columbia  College  Library 

Madison  Av.  and  49th  St.  New  York. 

/tfshf^'  thf  main  tof'irihis  hnnk  n/nofft'iila  of 


9 


ir? 


ITALY 


! 


J 


'   i    ■* 


AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


^BY 


K.  S.  G,  S. 


'AUTHOR    OF    "  THISTLE-DOWN,"  A    POEM,    ETC 


J 


LONDON : 

WILLIAM     FREEMAN,     102,     FLEET     STREET, 


MDCCCLXVm. 


I.ONDOX  : 

KELLY  &  CO.,  PRINTERS, 

fiATE  STREET.  LINCOLN'S  INN   FIELDS,  W.C. 


I 


\ 


s 

CO 

:^ 

X) 


TO 

DANTE 

IN  THE  DISTANT   BUT  EVER-LIVING 
PAST  ; 

TO 

FILIPPO   PISTRUCCI 

IMPROVVISATORE      AND      EXILE, 
THE  FRIEND  OF  MY  YOUTH, 
WHO  NOW   AWAITS  ME   IN   A  COUNTRY   FAIRER  THAN  HIS  OWN 


TO 


GUISEPPE  MAZZINI 


AND 


GUISEPPE     GARIBALDI, 


THE   FATHERS   OF   ITALIAN   LIBERTY, 


THESE  PAGES  ARE  INSCRIBED. 


6928  i  J 


ii 


PREFACE. 


On  her  return  from  a  visit  to  Italy,  to  undertake  which 
vivid  sympathy  with  the  destinies  of  that  land  at  this 
critical  juncture  had  been  the  chief  inducement,  the  writer 
was  urged  to  give  an  account  of  her  experience.  Con- 
scious that  by  so  doing  she  would  not  be  burdening  the 
world  with  another  ordinary  book  of  travels,  or  even  with 
a  mere  recital  of  feminine  adventure,  she  yielded  to  the 
wish,  believing  that  she  might  bo  able  to  move  the 
sympathies  of  some  towards  that  country,  in  whose  cause 
England  has  ever  manifested  a  generous  and  steadfast 
interest. 


CONTENTS. 


•l 


Preface 

Italian  Hymn,  No.  1. 
Translation 

Italian  Hymn,  No,  2. 
Translation 


CHAPTER  I. 


The  Journey  to  Italy 


CHAPTER  II. 


Milan 


CHAPTER  III. 

From  Brescia  to  Verona  and  Padua 


CHAPTER  IV. 


VENEZIA   la   BELLA 


CHAPTER  V. 

Giotto — Padova  la  dotta 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Genova  la  superba  and  the  Riviera 


PAGE 
V 

xi 
xii 

xiv 

XV 


11 


17 


29 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

FiRENZE   LA   GENTILE       . 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 


PAGE 


44 


67 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Palazzo  Vecxhio  and  the  Tombs  of  the  Medici       62 


CHAPTER  X. 
Religion  in  Florence         .... 

CHAPTER   XI. 

From   Florence  to  Livorno,  and  from  Livorno  to 


Caprera 


•  • 


CHAPTER  XII. 


(Iaprera 


CHxVPTER  XIIL 

From  Caprera  back  to  Florence 


Ravenna 


Rimini 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


CHxVPTER  XV. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


67 


71 


77 


87 


91 


Do 


Rome 


^  • 


100 


I 


I 


« 


contents. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


Art  in  Rome 


•  • 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  Protestant  Cemetery 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  Ruins  of  Rome     . 


CHAPTER   XX. 


The  City  of  Rome 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  Catacombs  and  the  Campagna 

'^  CHAPTER  XXII. 

Rome  seen  from  St.  Peter's 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  Sistine  Chapel     . 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


La  Sacra  Scala 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


A  Sunday  in  Rome 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


The  Romans 


IX 


PAGS 


105 


.   112 


.   115 


.   122 


.   129 


.   133 


.   138 


.   142 


.   146 


152 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

From  Terni  to  Arona 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


The  Simplon 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


Neufchatel 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
Conclusion — The  Perfect  Law  of  Liberty 


PAGE 


156 


161 


16; 


169 


^ 


ITALIAN    HYMN. 

ONE    OF  the    CANTICI    IN    THE    COLLECTION    USED    BY 
ITALIAN    PROTESTANTS. 

Signer !  pietoso  scendano 

Le  sante  Tiie  ruggiade ! 
La  prisca  Fe  rippiiUuli 

Neiritalc  contrade. 
Clie  risplendca  si  splendida 

Nella  remota  eta. 

Quando  il  bcato  Apostolo 

Dicea  con  santo  orgoglio 
Che  era  modcUo  al  popolo 

In  vctta  al  Campidoglio, 
La  pura  f  e  magnanima 

L'ardcnte  carita. 

Or  la  citta  del  Cesari 

Come  cangio  cambianza ! 
Dov'6  clic  canti  e  celebri 

Signor !  la  Tna  possanza ! 
Ed  in  Gcsii  glorifichi 

L'immenso,  eterno  Amor  ? 

Sul  campo  in  cui  la  fertile 

Messa  del  ver  crescea 
Funesta  e  ria  zizzania 

Nemica  man  spargea ; 
Degli  avi  eletti  i  posteri 

Vaneggian  nell'  error. 

Ed  ahi !  pin  fiero  turbine 

Or  suir  Italia  mugge — 
Scienza  fatale,  effimera 

II  Vangel  Tuo  distrugge— 
Ed  osa  infamia  e  scandalo 

La  Croce  Tua  chiamar. 


XI 


XI I 


ITALIAN    HYMN. 

Signer !  Deh !  Sorgi  e  dissipi 
L'antico  e  il  novo  errore ! 

Discenda  suU'  Italia 
Fecondo  il  Divo  Amore ! 

S'alza  al  Tuo  Cristo  un  cantico 
Dair  uno  all'  altro  mar. 


(translation.) 

O  Lord !  send  down  in  mercy 
Thy  gracious  dews  once  more  ! 

The  primal  faith  re-kindle 
On  Italy's  fair  shore — 
Which  shone  so  brightly  with  Thy  light 
In  the  far  days  of  yore. 

With  holy  pride  Thy  servant 

Could  gladly  testify 
That  Rome  was  brightly  famous 

Through  distant  realms  and  nigh  ; 
Where  men  were  speaking  of  her  faith 

And  ardent  charity. 

But  now  the  Caesar's  city 

Well  may  our  pity  move  ; 
\Vlio  there  declares  the  power 
Of  the  One  God  above  ? 
And  who  in  Jesus  magnifies 
The  riches  of  His  love  ? 

WTiere  thickly  for  the  harvest 
Grew  precious  wheat  alone, 

False  tares  and  useless  darnel 
The  Enemy  hath  sown. 
The  children  of  the  flock  of  God 
In  error  wander  on. 


TRANSLATION. 


XIU 


And  muttering  sounds  a  fiercer 
Approaching  storm  proclaim  ; 

A  vain  and  fleeting  science 

Blasphemes  the  Saviour's  Name, 
And  dares  to  call  His  glorious  Cross 
A  scandal  and  a  shame. 


O  Lord !  arise  and  scatter 

The  new  and  ancient  lie  ! 
Come  in  Thy  love  resistless, 
Descend  on  Italy ! 
That  to  Thy  Son  from  sea  to  sea 
One  song  may  rise  on  high. 

E.  S.  G. 


S. 


XIV 


ITALIAN    HYMN. 


TRANSLATION. 


XV 


ANOTHER    OF    THE    ITALIAN    CANTICI, 

Se  alia  terra,  O  He  clei  cieli ! 

Lar2;a  sea  la  Tua  bonta — 
Air  Italia  Tu  rivcli 

L'infinita  maesta. 

Chiaro  il  Sol  sovr'  essa  splende, 
Bella  immagine  di  Te — 

Puro  il  ciel  su  lei  si  stende, 
Doppio  mar  le  bagna  il  pie. 

Ubertosa  la  Natura 

Le  largbeggia  e  frutti  e  fior — 
Pur  si  bell  a,  o  rca  sventura ! 

Giace  inimersa  in  error. 

Sol  di  grazia !  A  lei  diffondi 
li  Tuo  raggio  redentor ! 

Che  i  fnitti  in  lei  fccondi 
Delia  fede  e  dell'  amor. 


ft 


(TRANSLATION.) 

If  on  earth,  0,  Heavenly  King ! 
Everywhere  Thy  grace  we  see, 
Italy  Thou  makest  sing 
Of  Thy  boundless  majesty. 

Her  clear  sun  that  shines  on  high, 
Symbol,  Lord !  of  Thee,  we  own- 
Pure  above  her  spreads  her  sky, 
Two  bright  oceans  lave  her  throne. 

Nature  here,  with  liberal  hand. 
Fruit  and  flower  doth  e'er  bestow  ; 
Yet,  alas !  this  beauteous  land 
Sunk  in  error  lieth  low. 

Sun  of  Righteousness,  appear ! 
On  her  let  Thy  glory  shine ! 
Richer  fruits  she  then  shall  bear, — 
Precious  Faith,  and  Love  Divine. 

£1.  S.  G.  S. 


m 


ITALY    AND  HEE  CAPITAL. 


LONDON  : 

KELLY  &  CO.,  PRINTERS, 

GATE  STREET,  LINCOLN'S  INN   FIELDS,  "W.C. 


/ 


t 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE      JOURNEY      TO      ITALY. 

♦•  On  change  de  cieL" 
From  Newhaven  to  Dieppe,  and  from  brilliant  Paris, 
under  tLe  dark  Jura  mountains,  lay  my  route  to  the  land 
of  Dante.  Dawn  was  breaking  as  our  train  arrived  at 
Macon.  Thence  to  Geneva,  the  scenery  resembles  that  of 
parts  of  Ireland,  and,  as  it  becomes  darker  and  closer,  of 
Wales.  Geneva,  which  was  reached  in  the  early  morning 
of  September  18th,  1866,  seemed  stately  and  somewhat 
cold.  The  other  side  of  the  lake  is  much  more  beautiful.  A 
singular  purity  characterizes  the  landscape  from  Lausanne. 

Ifote. — The  writer  travelled  as  far  as  Venice  by  one  of  Cook's 
excursion  tickets,  available  for  two  months,  so  that  she  was  able  to 
take  up  the  ticket  at  Arona  for  the  homeward  journey.  She  found 
this  arrangement  both  convenient  and  agreeable,  and  wishes  to 
render  her  testimony  in  favour  of  the  adoption  of  such  a  plan  by  all 
(especially  ladies)  who  may  be  contemplating  an  excursion.  Having 
objects  of  her  own  to  accomplish  along  the  route,  she  only  actually 
travelled  with  the  party  from  Paris  to  Geneva,  and  from  Bellinzona 
to  Milan,  perfect  independence  of  action  being  thus  compatible 
with  the  other  advantages  of  the  ticket, 

B 


2 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


At  Montreux  (anciently  Montrieux  *),  just  beyond  Clarens 
and  Vevay,  the  air  is  milder  than  at  Geneva,  and 
the  vine-clad  hills  give  a  warmth  and  brightness  to  the 
colouring  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other,  the  Alps  of 
Savoy  stand  in  dark  masses,  the  spiritual  presence  of  the 
ghostly  Dent  du  Midi  being  visible  to  the  left.  The 
Castle  of  Chilloii,  which  I,  of  course,  visited,  is  one  of  the 
chief  attractions  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  sweet 
Protestant  cemetery  of  Clarens,  with  its  memorials  of  the 
just,  lies  a  little  further  to  the  west.  To  this  cemetery  I 
walked  with  some  friends,  whom  I  found  at  Montreux,  one 
fair  evening  in  September,  our  road  lying  along  the  shores 
of  the  lake  beneath  the  bordering  trees  (chiefly  graceful 
Spanish  chestnuts),  and  through  the  Bosquet  do  Julie, 
rendered  famous  by  poor  Rousseau ;  and  there  we  conned 
the  inscriptions  testifying  to  the  power  of  Christian  faith 
to  strengthen  on  life's  journey,  and  to  brighten  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 

"  L'Eternel  a  6t6  mon  Berger." 

•'  L'exile  a  retrouve  la  veritable  patrie." 

The  next  morning  I  left  for  Lucerne,  passing  Fribourg, 
Berne,  and  Ulm  on  my  way  thither.  The  Lake  of  Lucerne, 

*  Petrarch's  brother,  Gherardo,  was  at  a  Carthusian  monastery  at 
Montrieux,  the  name  of  which  seems  to  have  been  Gallicized  from 
the  original  Italian  or  Latin  Monte  Rio  (the  hill  of  the  brook) ;  an 
appellation  to  the  present  day  strikingly  appropriate,  one  of  th« 
purest  and  clearest  of  streams  descending  from  the  vine-covered  hill 
to  Lake  Leman  (as  the  eastern  side  of  the  lake  is  called),  adding  tho 
sweet  sound  of  falling  waters  to  the  other  charms  of  the  spot.  Per- 
haps, however,  Montreux  or  Montrieux  means  simply  mountainous. 


I 


THE    JOURNEY    TO    ITALY.  ^ 

otherwise  called  the  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons,  is  lesi 
lovely  than  that  of  Geneva,  but  grander,  with  its  shadow- 
ing mountains,  the  Righi  on  one  side,  and  Mons  Pilatus 
on   the   other,  the  legend   respecting  which   is   at   least 

credible.* 

Dark  lake,  by  shadows  blackened,  and  by  thoughts 
From  that  high  mountain  whence  they  say  he  fell, 
Rushing  to  death, — who,  when  he  feared  the  Jews, 
Decreed  the  Just  to  die.     'Twas  natural 
That  he  who  dreaded  man,  and  scoffed  at  Truth, 
Should  dread  his  God,  when  left  alone  with  Hun, 
With  that  low  slavish  fear  which  casts  out  hope  ; 
And  so  he  could  not  bear  that  mountain -top. 
But  maddened,  fled  from  God  into  His  sight. 

Of  legends  to  believe  I  hold  this  one. 
His  was  the  grand  mistake,  seeing  his  sin, 
But  seeing  not  salvation,— his  own  crime, 
But  not  His  Love  Who,  dying  by  his  word. 
Yet  died /or  him.     Is  not  this  Satan's  sin. 
The  sin  of  sins,  discredit  of  God's  Love  P 
This  bolt  bars  Hell.     The  universe  were  healed 
Would  even  Satan  seek  to  be  forgiven. 

E.  S.  G.  S. 

The  Monument  erected  at  Lucerne,  after  the  design  of 
Thorwaldsen,  to  the  memory  of  the  Swiss  guards  who 
fell  at  Paris  while  defending  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie 
Antoinette,  is  both  grand  and  appropriate.  Reflected  in 
a  small  artificial  lake,  the  wounded  lion  reposes  amid  the 
shadows  of  maple  boughs,  whose  leaves,  when  I  saw  them, 

»  It  is  said  that  Pontius  Pilate  ended  his  life  by  suicide  from  this 
mountain.  It  is  only  analogous  with  oft-repeated  experience,  if, 
indeed,  he  who  so  feared  the  wrath  of  man,  fell  by  the  yet  greater 
madness  of  despair  of  the  mercy  of  God,  believing  he  had  sinned 

b2 


ptr^"^-"^-'"'''"'''iaTlliitfi"l1lirWfii[iiiM^ 


4  ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 

were  rosy  with  their  autumnal  tints.  The  names  of  the 
guards  who  fell  are  inscribed  on  the  rock,  out  of  which 
the  lion  is  carved.  If  the  unreasoning  fortitude  of  the 
noble  brute  be  a  suggestive  illustration  of  a  fidelity  ex- 
hibited for  any  cause,  it  yet  does  truly  typify  the  faithful- 
ness of  the  Swiss,  a  quality  too  precious  to  be  despised, 
and  which  has  seldom  failed  to  answer  to  the  demands  of 
danger. 

The  sky  was  gloomy  and  louring  as  the  boat  crossed 
the  dark  waters  to  Fluellen,  a  point  a  little  beyond  Tell's 
chapel,  which  is  erected  on  the  spot  where  the  Swiss 
patriot  sprang  on  shore  from  the  tyrant  Gessler.  At 
Fluellen  the  boat  was  exchanged  for  the  diligence.  This 
was  my  first  experience  of  that  species  of  conveyance,  and 
I  wished  to  make  acquaintance  with  it  in  good  earnest,  so 
mounted  by  the  side  of  the  driver.  It  was  then  five  o'clock, 
September  21st.  About  seven,  we  passed  through  the  pic- 
turesque village  of  Altdorf,  with  its  statues  of  Tell  and 
of  Gessler.     By  the  time  the  pass  of  St.  Gothard  was 

bevond  forgiveness.  Milton  implies  (and  with  probable  truth)  that 
this  is  the  radical  sin  of  Satan  himself. 

"  Never  can  true  reconcilement  grow 
Where  wounds  of  deadly  hate  have  pierced  so  deep  ; 
Which  would  but  lead  me  to  a  worse  relapse 
And  heavier  fall : — so  should  I  purchase  dear 
Short  intermission  gained  with  double  smart. 

So  farewell  Hope !  '* 

May  it  not  indeed  be  this  which  bars  his  prison-house?  Be  the 
legend  true  or  false,  it  mingles  with  and  deepens  the  shadows  cast 
by  Mons  Pilatus. 


THE    JOURNEY    TO    ITALY. 


5 


I 


really  entered,  evening  was  closing  in.  We  stopped  at 
Andermatt  about  eleven,  p.m.,  with  appetites  to  appreciate 
the  roughest  fare,  and  senses  quickened  to  enjoy  all  the 
picturesque  and  primitive  appliances  of  the  hostelry. 
Further  on,  another  halt  of  short  duration  was  made  at 
Amweg,  and  then  the  crossing  of  the  actual  mountain 
began.  The  horses  with  their  loose  traces,  seemingly  as 
wild  as  the  steeds  of  Phseton,  dashed  up  the  winding  path, 
appearing  at  each  turn  of  the  road  to  be  about  to  plunge 
over  the  precipice  which  yawned  thousands  of  feet  beneath. 
As  many  feet  overhead  rose  the  Alps,  and  in  the  distance 
gleamed  the  peaks  of  an  eminence  to  which  the  driver  gave 
the  name  of  the  Ghost's  or  the  Ghostly  Mountain.  The 
moon,  which  had  been  long  obscured,  came  out  in  full  glory 
as  we  reached  the  Devil's  Bridge,  a  name  that,  amid  such 
trophies  of  His  might,  at  Whose  word  the  hills  arose,  was, 
to  my  mind,  a  peculiar  misnomer.  Speech  was  rendered 
inaudible  by  the  torrent  which  came  thundering  down, 
hoary  with  the  rush  of  ages,  and  gleaming  in  the  moon- 
light. The  mountains  shone  and  gloomed  above  and 
below,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  a  memory  for  all  time,  aye, 
and  for  eternity,  for  His  voice  is  as — 

"  The  sound  of  many  waters" — 
•'  Who  in  His  strength  setteth  fast  the  mountains,  being  girded 
with  power." 

That  torrent  is  the  commencement  of  the  Reuss,  the 
Swiss  river  which  falls  into  the  Lake  of  Lucerne.  From 
a  similar  cataract,  on  the  Italian  side,  flows  the  Italian 
Ticino,  which  has  its  mouth  in  the  Lake  of  Como. 


\ 


-t»i»ac--^-— -> -t  --MrJifiUM^wii.iiiiaiMMiaM'friillliTiiiiii 


MiSif'iaiiitMfwdlriftfeaa 


6  ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 

Soon  after  the  Devil's  Bridge,  we  gained  the  highest 
point  of  the  St.  Gothard,  and  began  to  descend.  The 
alabaster  gates  of  Italy  unclosing,  the  path  gradually 
widened,  the  horses  carrying  us  along  at  breathless  speed. 
Sleep  fell  upon  me  (I  never  so  fully  realised  the  force  of 
the  expression),  and  I  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  in  the 
diligence  as  we  traversed  the  pass  of  Dazio  and  Fadio, 
with  which  Ruskin's  "  Modern  Painters "  and  Turner's 
glorious  picture  "  The  Gates  of  the  Hills,"  had  rendered 
nie  familiar.  At  length,  at  seven  in  the  morning,  the 
diligence  stopped  at  Bellinzona,  on  the  Lake  of  Como. 
All  this  part  is  included  in  Italian  Switzerland ;  but  these 
names  with  their  sweet  sounds,  and  the  soft  air,  with  the 
warmer  and  more  luxurious  colouring  of  the  surrounding 
objects,  told  us  that,  at  least,  we  were  nearing  Italy. 

From  Bellinzona  the  road  lay  through  an  avenue  of 
chestnuts  to  a  point  where,  just  skirting  tha  Lake  of 
Como,  it  wound  round  that  of  Lugano  to  Camerlata. 
The  Lake  of  Lugano,  l)lue  as  a  sapphire,  lay  amid  the 
hills,  its  banks  affording  scenery  in  harmony  with  the 
delicious  atmosphere.  At  Camerlata  we  could  call  our- 
selves in  Italy  indeed,  and  we  proceeded  thence  by  train 
to  Milan,  reaching  the  brilliant  capital  of  Lombardy  about 
six  in  the  evening  of  September  22nd,  in  the  glow  of  an 
Italian  sunset. 


MILAN. 


I 


CHAPTER  II. 

MILAN. 

•'  Italia !  Italia !     Tu  cui  fece  la  sorte 

Dono  infelice  di  bellezza." 

Filicaja. 

*♦  Italia  !  O,  Italia !  thou  that  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty." 

Byron's  translation. 

Why  **  infelice  ?  "  Why  "  fatal  ?  "  Certain  it  is  that 
the  beauty  of  Italy  overflows  into  all  her  scenes,  and 
mingles  with  every  aspect  of  even  her  ordinary  life.  The 
commonest  wayside  inn,  spite  of  all  deficiencies  of  com- 
fort, and  sometimes,  it  must  be  confessed,  of  cleanliness, 
has  its  clambering  vine  trailing  in  graceful  festoons  over 
its  walls.  The  peasants,  with  all  the  neglected  attire  that 
the  "  dolce  far  niente "  has  produced,  look  at  you  with 
eyes  of  such  touching  sadness  that  you  can  think  but  of 
their  message,  which  appeals  to  your  very  heart.  Truly 
Italy  is  the  land  of  beauty. 

It  was,  however,  to  no  common  wayside  inn  that  I 
accompanied  the  tourists'  party  on  arriving  at  Milan. 
Our  hotel  was  that  de  la  Ville  in  the  Corso  Vittorio 
Emmanuele,  and  the  digression  with  which  this  chapter 
commences  is  caused  by  the  remembrance  of  the  half- 
length  statues  in  plaster  that  adorned  the  dining-hall  in 
that  building,  which  was  quite  enough  of  a  palace   to 


8 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


remind  one  of  the  days  of  the  Visconti  and  the  Sforza. 
Some  of  these  figures  represented  Sibylline  female  faces, 
partially  concealed  by  drapery;  one  was  the  face  of  a 
young  man,  type  of  "  La  Giovane  Italia,"  and  some  were 
those  of  aged  men,  who  might  have  belonged  to  the 
prophets  of  old.  But  what  struck  me  was  that  here  was 
no  mere  French  ornamentation,  but  exuberant  imagination 
and  feeUng  finding  their  way  even  into  the  decoration  of 
a  dining-room. 

Milan  is  a  bright,  lively  city.  The  costume  of  the 
ladies  is  well  known  as  a  black  lace  veil  falling  in  graceful 
folds.  It  is  not  unlike  the  Spanish  mantilla,  and  the 
forms  and  faces  of  the  wearers,  rather  elegant  than 
strikingly  beautiful,  also  somewhat  resemble  those  of  the 

daughters  of  Spain. 

The  full  moon,  bathed  in  whose  radiance  I  saw  the 
Cathedral  on  the  evening  of  my  arrival,  imparted  to  the 
marble  an  even  additional  purity.  Fairy-like  as  this  Cathe- 
dral undoubtedly  is,  elegant  is  the  word  most  appropriate 
to  it  also,  and  it  penetrated  me  with  no  satisfying  sense  of 
beauty,  as  its  fretted  workmanship  gleamed  in  the  moon's 
cold  rays.  Very  different  was  it  with  the  Duomo  of  Flo- 
rence. An  earnest  English  clergyman  and  his  wife  were 
then  stationed  at  Milan,  and,  after  the  English  service  on 
Sunday  evening,  he  (the  Rev.  —  Williams)  took  me  round 
to  the  Italian  Protestant  congregation— intelligent  and 
sincere,  so  far  as  could  be  judged.  Perfect  religious 
liberty  seems  to  be  allowed  in  this  city.  Its  great  artistic 
attraction,  as  is  well  known,  is  the  faded  fresco  of  the 


/ 


ii 


I'  < 


\ 


MILAN.  » 

"  Last  Supper,"  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in  the  refectory 
of  a  convent  in  connection  with  the  church  of  Santa 
Maria  delle  Grazie.  It  is  said  that  the  French  soldiers, 
in  the  time  of  the  first  Napoleon,  used  this  refectory  as  a 
stable.*  I  believe  Napoleon,  when  himself  aware  of  this, 
ordered  the  room  to  be  cleared,  and  the  fresco  cleaned. 
But  then  the  work  of  mischief  was  nearly  done.  How- 
ever, the  forms  and  countenances  are  still  perceptible,  and 
the  painting  is  far  more  beautiful  in  its  expiring  glory 
than  any  of  its  copies.  Amid  all  the  "changes  and 
chances  of  this  mortal  life  "  a  wonderful  preservative  law 
seems  to  watch  over  the  productions  of  true  art.  Not 
but  that,  doubtless,  many  perish  in  the  waves  of  Time. 
Still,  it  is  marvellous  how  those  waters  often  cleanse  and 
crystallize  when  it  might  have  been  thought  they  would 

destroy. 

Ascending  the  Cathedral,  I  had  my  first  view  of  an 
Italian  city  spread  beneath.  The  large  use  of  brick  tiles 
instead  of  the  cold  slate  of  the  shattered-looking  roofs  of 
France,  imparts  an  English  warmth  of  colouring  to  the 
buildings,  as  seen  from  above.  There  lay  before  me  the 
city,  illustrious  for  the  days  of  1848,  bathed  in  sunlight, 
in  the  centre  of  a  verdant  plain,  o'er  which  the  Alps  kept 
distant  guard.     There  was  something  English  about  the 

*  I  have  found  that  Ruskin,  in  '*  The  Stones  of  Venice,"  tells  us 
that  it  was  the  Austrians  who  quartered  their  soldieis  here.  He  is 
far  more  likely  to  be  right  than  my  Milanese  guide ;  and  yet, 
possibly,  the  crime  may  have  been  committed  both  by  Austrians  and 
French. 


i 


s 

aS5 


10 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


FROM    BRESCIA    TO    VERONA    AND    PADUA. 


11 


whole.  Of  course  the  sunlight  was  brighter,  and  the 
smoke  was  absent,  while  there  were  present  the  square 
tower,  that  distinctive  feature  of  all  Italian  towns,  and 
the  mountain  peaks  far  away.  Also,  in  England  there 
would  have  been  fewer  domes  and  more  spires.  But  still 
there  was  a  home-look  about  it.  In  truth,  England  and 
Northern  Italy  are,  in  many  respects,  much  nearer,  though 
geographically  more  distant,  than  England  and  France. 

Near  the  railway  station  is  a  fine  statue  to  Cavour, 
whom  we  may,  perhaps,  call  the  Peel  of  Italy,  a  great, 
because  an  honest,  statesman,  although  not  a  hero.  A 
moat  surrounds  the  city,  the  waters  of  a  small  stream,  a 
branch  of  the  Adda,  I  think,  filling  its  channel. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  September  25th  I  left  Milan 
for  the  road  to  Venice,  stopping  a  few  hours  at  Brescia,  a 
wild,  outlandish  place,  where  the  people  talk  an  almost 
unintelligible  patois.  They  are  a  noble,  though  a  half 
Bavage  race  ;  hence  the  name,  "  Brescia  la  generosa."  I 
had  a  card  of  introduction  to  Garibaldi,  and  the  hope  of 
seeing  him  for  a  few  minutes  was  the  reason  of  my 
leaving  the  train  at  Brescia.  But  the  army  was  dis- 
banding, and  when  I  reached  the  villa  where  the  general 
had  been,  just  outside  the  town,  the  presence  had  de- 
parted. There  was  no  other  train  that  day,  so  I  was 
forced  to  remain  the  night  "  Al  Gambaro,"  one  of 
those  wayside  inns  referred  to  above,  where  a  certain 
wild  picturesqueness  compensates  for  a  most  primitive 
simplicity  of  appointment. 


1 


I 


CHAPTER  III. 

FROM  BRESCIA  TO  VERONA  AND  PADUA. 

"  Fair  Verona." — Romeo  and  Juliet. 

The  road  between  these  cities  lay  through  the  rich  plain 
of  Lombardy,  where  on  many  a  field  the  tobacco  plant 
waved  luxuriantly,  alternating  with  the  maize,  or  Indian 
corn.  The  most  frequent  trees  are  acacias,  of  which  they 
make  pollards,  like  our  willows.  The  feathery  lightness 
and  freshness  of  the  foliage  struck  me  particularly.  Here 
were  no  rich  masses  of  varied  green,  no  glowing  autumnal 
tints.  It  was  like  the  budding  verdure  of  our  spring ; 
and  the  approach  of  winter  had  only  mingled  some  leaves 
of  brilliant  yellow  among  the  green.  In  England,  Nature 
seems  to  speak  in  more  humanly  sympathetic  tones  than 
elsewhere ;  and  our  Turners  have  some  scenes  of  touching 
loveliness  to  depict,  which  it  may  be  no  other  land  can 

furnish. 

The  train  waited  some  little  while  at  Brescia  previous 
to  starting,  on  account  of  the  many  volunteers  who  were 
dispersing  to  their  homes.  As  I  sat  in  the  carriage  I 
had  entered,  I  saw  a  group  of  these  Garibaldians  sepa- 
rating with  signs  of  the  close  and  brotherly  affection 
evidently  subsisting  between  the  members  of  that  band, 
which  most  surely  possesses  one  chief  element  of  strength 
—unity    of  spirit.     Seeing  my    interest    and   my   garb. 


12 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


one  of  them  intimated  a  wish  that  I  should  join  them. 
*  Is  there  room  ? '  I  asked,  in  Italian.  "  0  si !  "  was  the 
reply.  So  I  obeyed  the  summons,  thus  adding  another 
Garibaldian  to  their  number.  The  warm  grasp  of  these 
dear  fellows'  hands  was  heartily  returned,  for  a  common 
cause  made  us  one.  My  costume  and  unconcealed  sym- 
pathies made  my  journey  through  the  North  of  Italy  a 
sort  of  triumphal  march.  Of  course,  "  the  multitude  was 
divided,"  and  from  Austrian  officials  I  had  plenty  of 
those  contemptuous  glances,  which  it  would  have  been  an 
honour  to  receive,  but  for  the  fact  that  their  rule  was 
waning.  This  state  of  things  afforded  me  many  an  op- 
portunity of  speaking  a  word  to  one  and  another  of  the 
enthusiastic  and  knightly  volunteers,  of  the  Saviour  from 
the  yoke  of  sin  and  death.  I  believe  those  words  re- 
ceived His  blessing  Who  often  makes  use  of  such  feeble 
utterances.  The  '^ morale"  of  the  Garibaldians  was  evi- 
dently excellent.  They  were  not  dispirited  by  the  weari- 
some, and,  as  to  overt  results,  the  unsuccessful  late 
campaign  in  the  Tyrol ;  and,  though  glad  to  be  now 
"  homeward  bound,"  because  loving  hearts  were  there 
awaiting  them,  they  expressed  their  readiness  and  their 
desire  to  find  themselves  once  again  in  the  field. 

At  Peschiera,  just  at  the  southern  extremity  of  the 
Lago  di  Garda,  one  of  the  cities  of  the  Quadrilateral, 
where  Austrian  rule  still  lingered,  though  under  ''  notice 
to  quit,"  the  ceremony  of  the  examination  of  baggage 
had  to  be  gone  through.  It  did  not,  however,  prove  very 
formidable.      My  green   case,  containing   my   excursion 


•■■■€ 


I 


FROM  BRESCIA  TO  VERONA  AND  PADUA. 


1  c» 


ticket,  was  taken  from  me  by  some  official,  so  that,  for 
the  moment,  I  could  not  show  it  to  the  collector.     This 
circumstance   caused  a  little   respectful   pleasantry   and 
pretended  consternation  on  his  part.     I  was  ushered  into 
an  inner  room,  where  sat  two  officials,  one  of  them  evi- 
dently Austrian,   or  belonging  to  one   of  the   mongrel 
races  nominally  incorporated  with  Austria,  the  other  as 
evidently  Italian,  sitting  at  the  head  and  foot  of  a  long 
table,  with  one  of  the  well-known  bull -dogs  between 
them.     I  was  requested  to  write  down  my  name,  age,  and 
condition,  also  whence  I  came  and  whither  I  was  going, 
with  all  of  which  requests  I  complied,  except  the  third. 
'  My  condition,'    I  said,    '  I  don't  know.     Stanchissima. 
Very  tired.'     I  was  then  furnished  with  a  paper  to  show 
to  the  English  consul  at  Venice,  and  my  precious  green 
case  was  returned  to  me,  so  that  I  was  now  able  to  show 
my  ticket  to  the  guard.     The  Italian,  of  the  two  officials 
at  the  table,  said,  "  Siete  Patriotta;"  (I  was  wearing  a 
Garibaldian  costume,  partly  for  convenience  of  travelling, 
and  partly  as  the  true  expression  of  my  sentiments).     On 
my  leaving  the  inner  room  he  rose,  and  laid  one  hand 
kindly  on  my  shoulder.     It  was  a  small  circumstance,  but  I 
was  then  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  and  at  such  times  we 
are  sensitive.    I  realised  vividly  in  that  pressure  the  mean- 
ing of  the  words,  "  the  good  hand  of  my  God  upon  me." 

In  the  afternoon,  Verona  was  reached.  The  untiring 
rain  of  Italy  was  falling,  but  as  rain  is  never  any  impedi- 
ment to  my  enjoyment,  it  did  not  in  the  least  interfere 
with  my  appreciation  of  tke  grand  old  city.     I  sat  down . 


I 


14 


ITALY  AND  HER  CAPITAL. 


FROM  BRESCIA  TO  VERONA  AND  PADUA. 


15 


in  a  dark  little  shop,  opposite  the  house  of  Juliet,  and 
wrote  to  a  friend  at  home.  Yes,  it  is  still  *'  Fair  Verona," 
but  fair  now  with  a  grave,  sad  beauty.  Here  Dante 
found  his  first  resting  place  on  his  long  journey  of  exile. 
The  statue  to  him  in  the  Piazza,  in  which  stood  the  Scala 
Palace,  which  statue  I  saw  first  under  heavy  rain,  and 
afterwards  on  my  homeward  route,  under  the  raining 
blue  of  a  cloudless  Italian  sky,  is  very  fine ;  I  think  the 
sculptor's  name  is  Zanzoni.  The  typical  of  every  race 
ought  to  be  taken  as  representative ;  and  those  who  judge 
of  the  sons  of  Italy  by  the  multitude  now  testifying  to  the 
exhausting  effect  of  centuries  of  slavery,  would  do  well  to 
recollect  that  Dante  was  an  Italian. 

The  amphitheatre  at  Verona  is  a  miniature  Colosseum, 
only  that  the  former  ruin  is  of  dark  warm-tinted  brick, 
while  the  other  is  of  stone,  still  white  and  fresh  gleaming. 
Amid  both  up-spring  the  antiquarian  weeds,  and  both, 
works  of  the  old  Romans,  seem  mightier  in  their  massive 
decay  than  the  slighter  structures  of  more  modern  times 
in  their  entirety.  Ruskin  admires  the  churches  of  Verona 
as  pure  specimens  of  Lombardic- Gothic.  I  did  not  enter 
any,  but  remember  the  exterior  of  one  (San  Zeno,  I 
think)  very  distinctly.  There  is  always,  to  my  eye,  some- 
thing awkward  when  the  tower  rises  immediately  from  a 
long  flat  roof  (as  in  our  St.  Pancras,  Euston-road), 
giving  to  the  building  the  appearance  of  a  couchant 
sphinx.  This  was  the  impression  I  received  from  these 
churches.  Yet  they  have  solidity  and  quiet  strength, 
combined  with  warm  colouring. 


I  visited  the  cemetery.  How  different  from  that  sweet 
cemetery  of  Clarens,  on  the  shore  of  'Lake  Leman,  with 
its  messages  of  peace,  like  smiles  upon  the  face  of  the 
dead !  Here  the  well-worn  simile  "  the  harvest  of  death  " 
was  distinctly  realized.  Small  stones,  either  originally 
black  or  blackened  by  the  moisture  of  decay,  stood  in  long 
even  rows,  without  an  inscription,  like  the  ears  of  some 
dark  grain,  in  unvarying  furrows.  No  individuality,  no 
distinction.  Nothing  to  speak  of  human  tenderness,  or 
of  heavenly  hope.  Only  an  Austrian  soldier  keeping 
guard,  who  seemed  uneasy  at  my  prolonged  gaze  of 
wonderment.  The  only  sound  was  the  plash  of  the  dismal, 
but  yet  (to  the  *'  pathetic  fallacy,")  the  pitying  rain. 

I  slept  that  night  at  Padua,  a  much  livelier  town.  Its 
art-treasures  (those  at  least  contained  in  the  small  chapel 
of  the  Arena),  I  visited  on  my  return  from  Venice,  and 
will  refer  to  presently.  It  was  late  when  I  arrived  on 
this  occasion;  every  inn  was  full,  but  I,  happily,  found 
shelter  in  a  private  house,  where  my  hostess  was  a  young 
lady-like  person,  with  a  delicate  English-looking  face. 
It  was  a  warm  night,  and  I  was  surprised  at  her  haste  to 
close  the  windows.  I  stopped  her,  to  my  cost,  as  the 
candle  was  burning.  Thus  and  then  began  my  acquaint- 
ance with  the  tormenting  mosquitoes,  which  at  Venice 
ripened  (alas  for  me!)  into  a  most  distressing  intimacy. 
Padua  was  already  free  from  the  yoke  of  the  stranger,  and 
beneath  my  window  was  stationed  a  soldier,  whose  sentry- 
box  was  attired  not  in  the  detested  black  and  yellow,  but 
in  the  loved  and  cheering  tricolour  of  Italy. 


16 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


**VENEZIA    LA    BELLA." 


17 


It  was  five  o'clock  on  a  briglit  morning  when  I  passed, 
by  rows  of  acacias,  with  their  sparse,  but  vivid  foliage,  and 
a  somewhat  desolate  field,  to  the  railway  station,  en  route 
for  Venice.     The  railway  was  at  that  time  complete  only 
as  far  as   Murano,  the    late  war  having  interrupted  the 
communication  thence  by  that  means.     At  Murano,  there- 
fore, the  train  had  to  be  quitted  for  post  carriages.     I 
soon  found  one,   which  I  shared  with  a  peasant  woman 
going  to  Venice  on  some  matter  of  daily  business,  and  we 
scudded  along  to   Mestre   along   the   bright   plain    "  del 
Veneto,"   our  road    being   bordered  with   willows  which 
loved  the  moist  soil  of  the  neighbourhood  of  the   City 
of  the   Sea.     Almost  every  house  on  the  way  bore  an 
inscription  of  patriotic  rejoicing ;   for  the  whole  district, 
except   Venice  itself  and  the  Quadrilateral,  was  entirely 
free  from  the  yoke  of  Austria. 

At   Mestre,  where  the  river  Brenta  meets  the  sea,  my 
companion  and    I  exchanged  the  carriage  for  a  gondola. 
It  was  now  about  seven,  a.m.,  for  our  transit  from  Padua 
had  been  speedily  accomplished.     The  harbour  of  Mestre 
(if  such  it  can  be  called),  was  one  scene  of  confusion  and 
vociferation.     One  of  the  far-famed  beggars  of  Italy,  a 
very  monster  of  dwarfish  deformity,  sat  on  the  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  water,  loudly  appealing  for  alms.     Another 
passenger,  a  man  with  a  large  bag  of  flour,  joined  ns,  as, 
at  length,  we  entered  the  open  boat  or  barchetta  (such 
being  its  legitimate  name,  as  wanting  the  coffin-like  cell 
of  the  orthodox  gondola),  which  was  soon  softly  floating 
towards  Venice. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


**  VENEZIA    LA    BELLA." 


"  A  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  time." — Byron, 

••  Only  a  tear  for  Venice  !  "— ^.  B.  Browning. 

Venice  !  Through  pathways  of  dark  green,  silent  water, 
the  boat  glided  in.  Past  the  Giudecca,  the  old  Jewish 
quarter;  by  faded  palaces,  looking  like  garments  once 
gorgeous,  now  moth-eaten  with  age.  Stakes,  painted 
with  wreathed  stripes  of  some  bright  colour,  stand  here  and 
there  along  the  canals,  warning  the  gondoliers  of  danger- 
ous places.  Upon  such  stakes,  I  believe,  the  foundations 
of  the  houses  themselves  are  laid. 

The  hotel,  at  which  I  again  joined  the  tourist  party, 
was  the  Barbesi,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  not  far  from  the 
Piazza  San  Marco.  Drawing  near  the  city,  I  saw,  through 
the  misty  light,  goblin-like  figures  standing  on  a  bridge, 
the  end  of  which  was  lost  in  space,  who,  with  their  un- 
earthly genuflexions,  seemed  engaged  in  some  idolatrous 
rite.  These  proved  to  be  workmen  repairing  the  railway 
bridge  from  the  efi'ects  of  the  war.  After  a  short  time  of 
rest,  and  a  slight  refreshment  (while  partaking  of  which 
I  was  entertained  by  the  monotonous  chant  outside  the 
window  of  some  men  who  were  at  work  on  a  higher  story 
of  the  hotel,  and  who  kept  themselves  in  time  at  their 


% 


18 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


labour  by  chanting  simultaneously  in  a  rich  musical  voice), 
I  set  out  for  a  ramble.  For  you  can  walk  about  Venice, 
a  discovery  which  somewhat  surprised  me,  as  I  had 
supposed  the  fluid  highway  to  be  the  only  one.  Innumer- 
able bridges  connect  the  islands  which  constitute  the  city. 
The  heat  was  oppressive ;  not  a  breath  of  air  seemed 
stirring.  I  had  expected  to  hear  the  moan  of  the  waves, 
but  silence  reigned.  A  low  plashing,  following  the 
strokes  of  the  Gondoliers'  oars,  might  be  heard  by  an 
attentive  ear,  but  that  was  all.  I  have  read  that  during 
the  winter  and  spring  after  my  visit,  the  wind  was  so 
high  on  some  days  that  it  raised  the  waters  into  billows, 
and  flooded  the  Piazza  San  Marco.  Then  the  scene  must 
have  been  glorious. 

Venice  is,  indeed,  sui  generis-,  itself  anomalous,  and 
full  of  the  most  startling  contrasts.  Its  narrow  calli  or 
passages,  its  busy  mercerie,  open  into  wide,  desolate 
squares,  whose  very  air  is  silence.  There  is  the  Rialto, 
as  crowded  as  its  representative  in  the  days  of  Shake- 
speare, still  principally,  though  not  entirely,  filled  with 
jewellers'  shops.  There  is  the  dazzling  Piazza  San 
Marco,  and  close  behind  are  quiet  nooks  which  never 
see  the  sun,  and  where  you  might  hear  a  pin  drop.  The 
numbers  of  the  houses  are  reckoned  by  thousands,  and  it 
was  strange  to  come  upon  No.  4000  marked  on  a  bright 
blue  plate  on  some  dwelling  whose  back  door  is  in  one  of 
the  calli,  and  whose  front  entrance  is  approached  by 
water,  the  gondola  lying  by  this  latter  approach,  like  the 
owner's  private  carriage. 


''  VENEZIA    LA    BELLA." 


19 


Those  gondolas,  too,  with  their  funereal  coverings, 
looking  like  the  barks  of  Charon,  and  yet  gliding  swiftly 
along  water  clearly  reflecting  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue.  All 
these  things  produced  on  me  an  impression  of  the  deepest 
sadness,  especially  as  on  most  of  the  faces  of  the  people 
you  saw  the  heavy  weariness  of  a  hope  so  long  ^'deferred," 
that  it  had  made  the  heart  *'  sick  "  well  nigh  to  despair. 
At  that  time,  trade  being  at  the  lowest  ebb,  the  people 
were  starving  ;  and  they  had  waited  for  freedom  so  long 
and  so  patiently  that  they  had  almost  ceased  to  believe  its 
arrival  possible,  although  now,  indeed,  it  was  at  hand. 
The  typical  Venetian  face  (for  there,  as  elsewhere,  the 
masses  are  ordinary-looking,  and  it  is  but  the  few  who 
must  be  regarded  as  representative)  I  found  very  beautiful. 
Black  hair  and  clearly  cut  features ;  a  complexion  of 
wondrous,  almost  transparent,  paleness  ;  large  dark  eyes, 
shining  with  a  latent  fire,  though  in  their  depths  lay  the 
story  of  centuries  of  patient  waiting.  The  history  of 
Venice  is  written  in  the  faces  of  her  sons. 

Testolini,  a  dealer  in  the  fine  arts,  in  the  Piazza  San 
Marco,  was  one  of  these  specimens.  (It  is  unlikely  he 
will  ever  see  these  pages ;  but,  should  he  do  so,  it  will 
gratify  him  to  know  that  I  reached  Caprera  safely,  and 
delivered  the  book  into  Garibaldi's  hand.  He  was  most 
kind  in  giving  me  all  the  information  possible  as  to  the 
General's  movements ;  though  to  obtain  any  certain  news 
at  that  time  in  Venice  was  a  difficulty,  the  Austrians 
clutching  captiously  at  an  authority  which  they  knew  was 
theirs   no    longer).     There  hung   in   bis  shop  a  picture 

c2 


20 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


which  I  shall  never  forget — although  it  did  not  deserve 
admiration  for  its  beauty—"  The  Saviour,"  by  Giuseppini. 
The  face,  as  has  been  said,  was  not  beautiful.    It  would  have 
been  ugly  but  for  that  expression  of  sad  tenderness.    The 
painter  was  no  genius,  but  you  hoped  he  was  a  Christian. 
At  the  Hotel  Barbesi  there  was  then  an  Englishman, 
named   Captain   Bcott,  who,   in  the  Italian  war  of  1848, 
himself  raised  an  English  corps  expressly  for  the  libera- 
tion of  Venice.*     Venice  was  his    dream,   his  idol,  his 
mistress,  he   would   say.     So   that   now   that   by   other 
means  her  freedom  was  at  hand,  he  had  come  to  her  to 
witness   her    rejoicing.      Poor    man  !      His   health    had 
been  devoted  to,  and  lost  in  her  cause.    One  leg  was  lamed 
and   nearly  useless  from  a  wound  in  battle,  and  he  had 
evidently  received  internal  injuries.     I  saw  that  he  was 
dying.     For  this  reason,  as  well  as  from  my  conviction 
that  in  the  knowledge  of  Jesus  consists  all  true  life  here  as 
well    as   hereafter,    I    spoke  to   him  of  a    Greater    than 
Garibaldi,  of  a  love  more  wonderful  than  his,  of  a  de- 
liverance greater  than  any  he  had  effected  or  could  effect. 
1   trust   his   heart   responded.     The  heart  speaks  words 
audible  to  One  Ear  alone. 

The  first  time  I  went  out  in  a  gondola  (of  course  the 
orthodox  mode  of  transit  in  Venice),  was  on  an  evening 

*  Once,  on  parting  from  Garibaldi,  the  latter  had  asked  him  what 
he  could  do  for  him  to  testify  his  sense  of  his  services.  ••  A  letter 
in  your  own  handwriting  is  enough  for  me,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  but 
don't  forget  my  Venice."  "Tu  mi  commovi  coUa  tua  Venezia," 
rejoined  Garibaldi. 


"    VENEZIA    LA    BELLA." 


21 


f 


after  I  had  been  some  days  in  the  city.  "  You  cannot 
see  much  at  this  hour,"  said  Captain  Scott.  "  But  you  are 
a  poet,"  he  added,  as  though  in  that  title  (which  the 
writer  thanked  God  she  could  accept  in  a  limited  sense), 
lay  the  explanation  of  every  out-of-the-way  taste  and 
unusual  method  of  proceeding.  Whether,  indeed,  here 
was  the  secret,  I  know  not,  but  certain  it  is  that  never 
could  Venice  have  looked  so  fair  and  so  wonderful,  to  me 
at  least.  The  lower  parts  of  the  houses  being  hidden, 
they  seemed  indeed  to  rise  "  from  out  the  waves.  "  The 
stars,  reflected  in  the  dark  water,  half  illuminated  the 
palaces  wdth  that  spiritual  light  which  gives  their  true 
character  to  uncommon  and  imaginative  scenes.  I  stepped 
out  at  the  Piazetta,  and  having  passed  a  few  moments  in 
the  busy  and  brilliant  Piazza  San  Marco,  returned  in  the 
gondola  to  the  hotel,  fully  satisfied  that  I  had  seen  Venice 
in  her  unconscious  and  magic  loveliness.  I  saw  her  more 
than  once  afterwards  from  the  gondola,  in  "  the  light  of 
common  day."  She  was  still  fair,  truly ;  but  the  spell 
was  broken.     The  enchanter  had  dropped  his  wand. 

The  Ducal  Palace  has  been  so  often  described,  that  the 
reader  will  not  thank  me  for  adding  to  the  list  of  descrip- 
tions. However,  I  find  it  impossible  to  "  speak  not,  but 
pass  on."  The  outside  is,  of  course,  familiar  to  all,  from 
the  paintings  of  Canaletto  and  of  Turner.  But  enter,  I 
j)ray  you,  fellow-traveller  mine,  whoever  you  be,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  follow  me — first  along  the  now  silent,  de- 
serted halls  above,  still  terrible  in  their  magnificence — 
their  marble  stairs  a  labour  to  the  feet,  and  their  gigantic 


22 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


and  gorgeous  paintings    a  weariness  to  the    eye; — and 
then,  down,  down  to  those  fearful  "  pozzi,"  into  which  no 
breath  of  God's  air,  no  ray  of  God's  sun  can  penetrate. 
Ah  !  you  shudder  !  but  scarcely  with  surprise.     You  felt 
that  there  was  cruelty,  unrelenting  and  Satanic,  hidden 
behind  that  hard  splendour  up  above.    You  felt  that  there 
had  stepped  men  whose  hearts  were  cold  and  stony  as 
the  marble  on  which  they  trod — men  belonging  to  the 
Council  of  Ten.      Men  like  that  Doge  Loredano   who, 
when  his  enemy  died  of  woe,  inscribed  in  his  ledger,  "  He 
has  paid  me  ! "     There  is  an  air  of  self-satisfied  material- 
ism in  those  glowing  pictures  of  Titian,  and  even  in  those 
here  of    Tintoretto,  elsewhere  known  by   better   things, 
which  speaks  of    those  who  were  "not  in  trouble  like 
other  men,"  and  whose  hearts  were,  therefore   *'  holden 
with  pride,   and  overwhelmed  with  cruelty."      Unmixed 
physical  well-being  has  not  done  for  man  out  of  Paradise. 
Sad  as  has  been  the  story  of  Venice  during  her  centuries 
of  sorrow,  it  has  been  grander — aye — and  less  mournful  (to 
me  at  least),  than  her  story  during  her  prosperous  but 
cruel  years.     God  grant  her  a  brighter  history  now ;   and 
at  the  same  time  give  her  that  knowledge  of  Himself, 
which  shall  prevent  a  repetition  of  the  crime-stained  pages 
of  the  past ! 

This  Palace  was,  to  my  mind,  an  allegory  in  stone  of 
man  himself.  A  "  King's  Palace "  originally — and  on 
whose  walls  still  linger  the  paintings  of  the  Divine  Artist. 
Yes,  ye  who  contend  for  the  dignity  of  human  nature — we 
deny  it  not.     But  in  that  very  fact  lies  the  sadness — that 


"  VENEZIA    LA    BELLA.' 


23 


such  pictured  halls  as  the  human  intellect  and  the  human 
heart  should  be  now  so  tenanted  !  And  if  ye  say  "  we  are 
righteous  still" — we  reply,  are  you  very  sure  ?  May  not 
your  eyes  be  unopened  to  see  "  your  bosom's  black  inhabi- 
tants ? "  And  have  you  gone  all  over  the  building  ?  Have 
you  ever  been  down  into  the  pozzi  ? 

Some  men  live  only  in  their  upper  rooms.  And  this 
might  be  a  wise  plan  were  it  not  that  man  must  be  his 
own  habitation  for  ever,  and  that  he  will  have  to  explore 
the  whole  some  day  ;  and  were  it  not  also  for  the  folly  of 
being  led  by  ignorance  to  refuse  when  the  Divine  Architect 
Himself  offers  to  re-build  the  structure.  One  day,  if  the 
refusal  continue,  will — 

"  At  home  a  stranger, 
Thought  wander  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
And  wondering  at  her  own.*' 

And  this  Palace  may  also  typify  that  Apostate  Church, 
80  attractive  to  many,  who  look  only  upon  her  outside, 
"  decked  with  gold  and  precious  stones  and  pearls," — so 
terrible  to  those  who  know  her  as  she  is — 

A  Palace  and  a  Prison,  such  is  Rome. 
Hers  are  apparent  splendour,  hidden  gloom  : 
Like  to  that  fearful  structure,  where  from  halls 
Oppressive  in  their  grandeur,  you  descend 
To  cells  where  of  the  day  no  memory  falls ; 
But  silence  reigns,  and  darkness  without  end.  *  * 

E.  S.  G.  S. 

*  *  It  should,  perhaps,  be  mentioned  that  the  lines  in  this  volume 
marked  thus,  have  appeared  previously  in  a  small  publication,  The 
Protestant  Vindicator,  to  be  obtained  at  the  Protestant  Electoral 
Union,  3,  Craven  Street,  Strand. 


24 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


"  VENEZIA    LA    BELLA." 


25 


The  *'piombi,"  or  leads,  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Silvio 
Pellico,  are  no  longer  used. 

I  read  somewhere  a  few  weeks  ago  the  remarks  of  some 
traveller  who  said  that  the  pozzi  were  not  so  bad  as  he 
had  expected,  and  not  so  very  dreadful  after  all,  because, 
forsooth,  they  are  not  below  the  sea-level.  Perhaps  they 
are  not ;  but  I  know  not  what  that  writer's  ideal  of  the 
terrible  must  be— if  entire  deprivation  of  light  and  air  (the 
food  of  the  prisoners  having  been  thrown  in  through  a 
round  hole  in  the  solid  wall),  and  the  only  communication 
with  the  outer  world  being  by  a  massive  door  at  the  end 
of  a  long  stone  passage — does  not  reach  it. 

The  proverb  ''  Save  me  from  my  friends  "  (the  word 
''  false  "  being,  of  course,  understood),  came  from  one  of 
these  pozzi.  Byron,  whom  the  world,  while  it  remembers 
his  vices,  forgets  often  to  thank  for  many  a  solid  service, 
spent  hours  in  these  fearful  dungeons,  deciphering  the 
inscriptions  on  the  walls. 

But  is  there  any  symptom  of  a  dawn  of  spiritual  life  in 
Venice  ?  This  is  certain,  there  are  many  ready  to  receive 
the  truth.  On  the  Sunday  I  spent  there  the  English 
clergyman  was  absent,  and  there  was  no  service.  I  wan- 
dered forth  to  see  if  I  could  either  hear  or  speak  of  Him 
Whose  Name  is  above  every  name.  The  then  state  of 
Venice  afforded  a  suggestive  text.  All  on  the  royal  side 
had  been  prepared;  the  decision  as  to  their  freedom 
(ostensibly  at  least)  remained  with  the  people;  so,  on 
reaching  a  small  market-place,  I  spoke  to  a  man  selling 
fruit,  of  Him  Who  beseeches  men  to  be  reconciled  unto 


Him,  having  Himself,  and  at  so  great  a  cost,  secured  their 

salvation  if  they  will  but  accept  it,  and  thus  set  their  own 

seal  to  the  treaty  of  peace.     I  had  with  me  one  of  the 

Epistles  to  the  Romans  in  Italian,  from  the  Bible-stand 

in  the  Crystal  Palace,  and  read  a  few  words  aloud.    Much 

interest  was  excited,  and  a  small  crowd  gathered,  some 

of  the  number  assenting  heartily.     I  said,  '  the  life  is  the 

test  of  true  faith.'      '*  Yes,"  said  one  man,    "life  and 

death  and  eternity."     At  length  an  arm  was  laid  on  my 

shoulder,  and  I  was  told  to  desist.     Having  delivered  the 

message,  I  obeyed  at  once.     Surely  among  those  people 

were  some   '•^waiting''  to  receive  Him,   Whom  in  some 

other  places   men  were    "beseeching  to   depart   out   of 

their  coasts." 

Venice  has  palaces  of  art-treasures,  wherein  lie  hid 
"things  new  and  old"  in  mingled  confusion,  like  the 
tangled  growths  of  some  primeval  wood,  where  the  blossom 
of  to-day  gleams  among  the  half-withered  boughs  of  a 
century's  duration.  Salviati's  mosaic  works  face  an  anti- 
quarian museum  on  the  other  side  of  the  canal.  There 
strange  old  capitals  of  columns  lay  on  the  floors  of  many 
chambers,  and  outside  the  house  in  the  garden,  amid 
luxuriant  vegetation,  where  the  vine  twined  itself  in 
endless  wreaths  of  wild  caprice  around  Italy's  typical 
cypress,  that  rose  dark  and  mournful,  casting  its  long 
shadow  into  the  blue  waters  of  the  canal  beneath.  The 
Accademia  delle  belle  Arti  contains  several  works  of 
Titian  and  Tintoretto,  and  other  painters  of  the  gorgeous 
Venetian  school.     I  turned  from  the  mundane  luxurious- 


26 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


'*  VENEZIA    LA    BELLA." 


27 


ness  of  Titian  to  Tintoretto's  dark  *'  Cain  and  Abel,"  a 
terrible  reflection  of  the  first  on  earth's  long  list  of  crimes. 
Titian  is,  ''  par  eminence,"  a  portrait-painter,  the  portrait- 
painter,  with  Giovanni  Bellini,  of  all  time.  In  the  faces 
pourtrayed  bj  these  artists,  with  their  expression  yivid, 
as  thongh  that  of  still  breathing  men,  and  yet  stamped  as 
if  for  eternity,  the  story  of  old  Venice  lives  for  ever. 

From  the  Campanile,  in  the  Piazzetta,  you  see  beyond 
the  still  waters  of  the  canal  to  the  Adriatic.  On  the 
summit  of  that  tower  a  fresh  breeze  was  blowing,  a  great 
refreshment  after  the  sluggish  oppressiveness  of  the 
motionless  air  below.  Turning  to  the  north,  the  whole 
of  Venice  was  seen  stretching  out,  somewhat  sombre  and 
quiet  in  colour,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  gradually 
diminishing  in  brightness  from  the  Piazzetta,  facing  the 
centre  of  the  Grand  Canal,  where  Venice  smiles  on  the 
sea,  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Mestre  and  Murano.  Below 
the  Ducal  Palace,  and  beyond  it  to  the  east,  is  the  Riva 
degli  Schiavoni,  which  would  appear  to  derive  its  name 
from  the  Slaves  or  Sclavons,  who,  in  the  prosperous  days 
of  Venice,  seem  to  have  been  as  Helots  among  the  more 
fortunate  Venetians. 

The  Austrian  military  band  came  one  evening  and 
played  in  the  court-yard  of  the  hotel.  The  music  was 
certainly  very  fine,  and  the  then  position  of  the  Austrians, 
just  lingering  out  the  last  days  of  their  Venetian  rule, 
broke  into  the  painful  feelings  which  would  otherwise 
have  prevented  all  enjoyment.  From  an  upper  window 
I  looked  down  on  the  white  coats,  other  specimens  of 


W 


which  one  met  continually,  looking  ragged  and  sullen, 
seeming  to  tell  the  Italians  they  were  not  leaving  in 
deference  to  them.  The  mode  of  the  acquisition  of  liberty 
for  Venice  was  anything  but  pleasing  to  Italian  patriots, 
and  to  those  of  other  lands  who  had  the  cause  of  Italy  at 
heart.  Yet  the  dark  eyes  at  the  shop-doors  brightened, 
and  the  tasteful  tiny  bouquets  of  the  odorous  Italian 
jasmine,  combined  with  some  blossom  of  deep  red,  and 
the  unfailing  green  of  Ilope^  the  appropriate  colour  for 
earth's  foliage,  spoke  the  feelings  of  Venetians.  Venice 
has  wept  almost  long  enough  to  fill  her  numberless  gulfs, 
were  they  emptied  of  their  natural  waters,  with  waves 
briny  with  another  salt.  And  she  has  fought  bravely,  as 
well  as  suffered  patiently.  May  the  future  be  rich  in  the 
fruits  of  these  long  years  of  sorrow !  Above  all,  may 
hearts  so  long  wearied  with  earthly  bondage  welcome 
Him  Who  delivereth  from  chains  more  ponderous,  albeit 
invisible,  than  man  can  weave.  So  may  there  be  "  great 
joy"  in  that  city  whereof  tears  have  been  the  emblem.* 

About  the  day  previous  to  myself,  a  young  married 
couple  left  the  Hotel  Barbesi,  to  wend  their  way  back  to 
old  England,  after  which  their  hearts  were  yearning,  by 
some  quiet  route.  The  gentleman  had  recently  returned 
from  New  Zealand.  He  had  also  been  in  India,  where 
he  had  served  under  Havelock,  and  where  he  had  married 
his  bright  young  Irish  wife.     I  never  knew  their  names  ; 

*  A  ring  of  waved  silver,  to  imitate  tears,  was  worn  by  Venetian 
and  other  Italian  ladies  (the  patriotic  at  least)  during  the  years  of 
her  servitude,  and  broken  on  her  emancipation. 


28 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


but  should  they  happen  to  read  these  pages,  they  will  be 
glad  to  know  that  I  reached  home  safely,  after  accom- 
plishing the  objects  of  my  journey.  I  hope  it  was  equally 
well  with  them.  I  shall  ever  remember  our  pleasant 
intercourse,  the  most  sympathetic  I  enjoyed  at  the  Hotel 
Barbesi.  In  the  early  morning  of  the  3rd  of  October, 
the  very  day,  as  it  afterwards  proved,  of  the  final  ratifi- 
cation of  peace  between  Italy  and  Austria,  and,  conse- 
quently, the  first  day  of  the  freedom  of  Venice,  I  left  in 
the  steamboat  for  Mestre.  The  early  mists  yet  shaded 
the  sky ;  the  palaces,  stamped  with  those  now  faded  but 
Btill  rich  decorations,  of  which  Ruskin  tells  us  in  the 
"  Stones  of  Venice,"  and  of  which  the  circle  of  the  Casa 
Dario  is  specially  impressed  upon  my  memory,  shone 
faintly  against  the  pale  blue  of  the  heavens  and  of  the  sea. 
The  Ducal  Palace  was  gradually  lost  from  sight.  At 
length  the  Campanile,  warden  of  that  piazza  where  the 
old  Winged  Lion  and  St.  George  (or  St.  Theodore)  over- 
look the  Adriatic,  as  they  have  done  for  centuries,  became 
thin  as  a  finger,  and  at  last  disappeared.  Then  came  the 
long  reeds  of  the  Lido,  and  Venice  was  a  picture  in  my 
memory,  a  picture  to  which  the  paintings  of  Turner  alone 
bear  worthy  resemblance. 


If 


GIOTTO. 


29 


CHAPTER  V. 

GIOTTO 

and 
••  Padova  la  Dotta." 

A  BRISK  ride  from  Mestre  to  Murano,  along  the  willow- 
bordered  road,  and  past  the  houses  brightened  with  their 
rejoicing  inscriptions,  and  a  swift  passage  in  the  train 
from  Murano,  brought  me  back  on  my  road  as  far  as 
Padua.  My  two  great  objects  were  Caprera  and  Rome, 
and  at  this  time  (although  afterwards  I  found  it  necessary 
to  go  on  to  Florence,  and  thence  to  Livorno,)  I  thought 
that  from  Genoa  I  could  easily  accomplish  my  first  aim. 
To  Genoa,  therefore,  via  Milan,  I  was  now  bound.  But 
reaching  Padua  about  1  p.m.,  I  could  not  proceed  without 
devoting  a  few  hours  to  the  contemplation  of  some  of  its 
paintings,  for  this  was  the  city  of  my  favourite  Giotto. 
There  was  one  great  counteraction  to  my  pleasure 
throughout  Italy,  viz.,  that  the  chief  paintings  were  in 
the  churches ;  and  my  entire  conviction  of  the  evil  and 
sinfulness  of  such  representations  there,  interfered  with 
any  enjoyment  the  paintings  themselves  might  afibrd. 
At  Florence,  in  the  galleries  of  the  Uffizi,  and  the  Pitti, 
and  at  Rome,  in  the  galleries  of  the  Vatican  and  the 
Capitol,  there  was  no  drawback  of  the  kind.  One  chapel, 
however,  which  seemed  left  in  quietude,  except  for  the 


I 


,« 


30 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


GIOTTO. 


31 


speech  which  the  brush  had  written  upon  its  walls  long, 
long  ago — I  felt  I  must  visit,  that  of  the  Arena  at 
Padua.  Entering,  through  high  doors,  one  of  those 
tangled  gardens  wherein  all  the  natural  growths  of  Italy 
live  and  die  in  unchecked  luxuriance,  and  which  I  found 
to  belong  to  one  of  those  villas  wherein  most  usually 
foreigners,  and  also,  most  probably,  English  foreigners, 
pass  a  retired  and  delicious  life,  I  discovered  that  a  side 
path  led  to  a  door  similar  to  that  through  which  I  had 
come  into  the  garden.  Pomegranate  trees  stood  on  each 
side,  bearing  their  ripe  fruit,  "  pleasant"  enough  "  to  the 
eyes  "  to  be  considered  the  Old  Fruit  of  fatal  memory. 
This  vestibule  seemed  to  announce  something  wonderful 
at  hand,  and  I  entered,  prepared  in  spirit,  a  treasure- 
house  indeed.  On  the  walls  were  the  utterances  of  the 
poet  of  painters,  now  like  whispers  in  their  paleness, 
but  how  mighty  still  in  the  enduring  might  of  earnest- 
ness and  truth !  Giotto  must  have  seen  by  faith  these 
scenes  which  he  has  here  pictured,  although  with  the 
deficiencies  of  infant  art,  yet  with  all  the  power  of  inward 
vision.  In  his  weakness  he  is,  to  me,  far  beyond  Titian  in 
his  strength.  ICspecially  the  closing  days  of  that  Life 
lived  for  us,  and  that  Death  whereby  we  live,  are  pour- 
trayed  with  a  simple  pathos  which  makes  you  exclaim — 
Even  thus  it  must  have  been  !  and  which  merges  all 
criticism  of  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  representation 
considered  artistically,  in  thoughts  of  the  events  them- 
selves. Yes — such  was  ''  His  meritorious  cross  and 
passion,  whereby  alone  we  obtain  remission  of  our  sins, 


I 


V.       9 


\ 


and  are  made  partakers  of  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 
Although  it  is  probably  a  legendary  error  which  has 
caused  Mary  Magdalene  to  be  considered  identical  with 
the  woman  who  washed  the  feet  of  Jesus  with  her  tears 
yet  the  prevalence  of  the  idea  imparts  a  touching  mean- 
ing to  what  I  found  to  be  a  feature  in  almost  all  Italian 
paintings  of  the  Crucifixion,  but  which  I  believe  to  be 
derived  from  Giotto,  or  at  least  from  him  and  his  con- 
temporaries, viz.,  Mary  Magdalene's  position,^standing 
below  the  cross,  and,  in  paintings  of  the  entombment,  by 
the  figure  thence  removed,  embracing  those  dear  Feet  now 
for  her  so  sorely  wounded,  and  bathing  them  with  tears 
expressive  of  the  love  of  her  who  had  been  much  for- 
given. I  cannot  describe  the  details  of  these  wonderful 
pictures,  for  I  did  not  observe  them.  These  paintings 
made  me  feel  that  T,  too,  was  there.  From  the  scene  in 
the  garden  I  heard  a  voice  "  Sleepest  thou  ?"  *^  Wilt 
thou  also  go  away  ?"  And  from  Him  Who  hung  sus- 
pended on  the  tree,  in  more  than  human  agony,  came  the 
words,  in  tones  of  more  than  human  tenderness,  "  No 
man  taketh  my  life  from  me,  but  I  lay  it  down  of  m'yself." 
'^  am  the  Good  Shepherd.  The  Good  Shepherd  giveth 
his  life  for  the  sheep."  This  is  the  poetry  of  painting, 
just  as  it  is  the  height  of  poetry  itself,  when  the 
painter  and  the  singer  are,  at  the  time,  forgotten,  and 
their  message  alone  is  regarded.  Afterwards,  in  fiillest 
gratitude,  the  verdict  is  given ;  this  is  true  painting— 
this  is  poetry  indeed. 

I  visited  the  University,  where,  in  the  cloisters  ear- 


32 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


GIOTTO. 


33 


rounding  the  court-yard,  was  a  monument  to  a  young  lady 
who  did  everything,  was  everything,  knew  everything, 
and,  of  course,  died  early.  I  remember,  also,  sitting  for 
a  while  to  rest  from  weariness,  and  from  the  suffering 
caused  by  the  mosquito-bites,  which  had  now  become 
intolerable,  on  the  steps  of  an  old  stone  fountain  in  a 
similar  court-yard,  belonging,  in  this  case,  I  believe,  to  a 
deserted  convent. 

What  we  should  call  in  England  the  Town  Hall  of 
Padua — where,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  sort  of  parliament  still 
assembles — is  a  remarkable  building :  the  large  hall  being 
very  lofty  and  unsupported  by  pillars,  and  the  walls  being 
covered  with  strange  allegorical  devices  and  quaint 
arabesques. 

I  ascended  the  Observatory,  otherwise  called  the 
Tower  of  Eccelino,  having  belonged  to  the  palace  of 
that  tyrannical  Duke  of  Padua.  Beneath  this  tower 
were  the  prisons,  an  essential  part  of  the  regal  mansions 
of  those  days.  From  such  a  tower  at  Arcetri,  not  far 
from  Florence,  Galileo  contemplated  the  heavens.  Milton, 
perhaps,  had  stood  here.  This  tower  commands  a  fine 
view  of  the  surrounding  country.  To  the  north-east  are 
the  Eugancan  hills,  among  which  lies  Arqua,  where 
Petrarch  died.  To  the  north-west  is  Monte  Berici.  On 
the  south-east  stretches  the  plain  ending  in  Venice,  while 
the  old  city  itself  lies  around  the  base.  Close  beneath, 
the  Brcnta  flows  sluggishly,  and  the  Botanical  Gardens 
are  seen  near  by. 

On  my  way  to  the  terminus,  when  proceeding  to  my 


.'^? 


"Sl* 


next  halting-place  on  the  way  to  Milan  for  Genoa,  viz., 
Vicenza,  I  stopped  for  a  moment  at  a  house,  once  the 
dwelling  of  the  Carrara  family,  with  one  of  whom  Dante 
stayed  for  some  time,  and  where  (as  the  inscription  on  the 
exterior  testifies)  through  the  friendship  of  its  possessor 
and  the  companionship  of  Giotto,  ''  ebbe  men  duro 
esiglio." 

Small  as  is  Vicenza,  it  was,  perhaps,  the  liveliest  city 
I  saw  in  Italy,  except  Milan  and  Florence,  and  parts  of 
Venice  and  of  Genoa.  The  population  seemed  large  for  the 
place, — a  rare  thing  in  that  country.  Sweet  faces,  with 
brilliant  eyes  and  colour,  walked  unbonnetted,  beaming 
with  the  vivacity  which  admits  every  expression  from  arch 
merriment  to  the  deepest  pathos.  This  town  had  been  free 
from  Austria  for  some  weeks,  and  was  a~stir  with  life  and 
joy.  Many  inns  at  which  I  applied  were  full.  At  length, 
somewhat  attracted  by  the  name  of  one,  ''  Alia  Luna,"  I 
thought  I  would  try  what  accommodation  that  locality 
afforded.  I  was  ushered  into  a  fair-sized  room,  which 
appeared  at  first  sight  tidy,  but  where  I  found  I  was  ex- 
posed to  the  assaults  of  my  old  enemies  the  mosquitoes, 
assisted  by  nameless  allies.  And  no  wonder ;  for  the 
next  room  seemed  the  habitation  of  various  species  of  the 
animal  creation,  especially  of  the  much-valued  and  ever- 
present  "  polami."  The  dialect  of  the  peasants  in  this 
part  is  atrocious.  The  old  woman  who  waited  on  me  (old 
in  Italy,  at  least,  where  the  women  of  the  lower  classes  are 
old  after  thirty)  would  come  and  stand  before  me,  and  to 
any  request  which  I  made  in  the  Italian  tongue,  would 


u 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


respond  in  an  incomprehensible  jargon,  and  then  bustle 
away  with  ''  Niente,  niente,  signora,"  to  re-appear  after  a 
short  interval,  when  the  same  pantomime  was  gone  through 
with  slight  variations.    About  mid-day  on  the  4th  October, 
I  heard  voices,  the  reverse  of  sweet,  singing  something  with 
the  chorus  ''  Viva  Italia,  Italia  bella;  "  and  to  judge  from 
other  sounds  which  penetrated  into  the  inn,  the  whole  town 
was  in  commotion.    On  inquiring  the  reason,  I  learned  that 
the  news  of  the  signing  of  the  treaty  between  Austria  and 
Venice,  which  had  taken  place  the  day  previous,  had  just 
reached  the  public  ear.    This  joy  was,  therefore,  sympathetic 
with  Venice  and  the  cities  of  the  Quadrilateral,  Vicenza 
herself,  as  before  stated,  having  been  free  for  some  time. 
In  the  evening  I  witnessed  the  rejoicings  in  the  piazza, 
which  is  the  Piazza  San  Marco  at  Venice  in  miniature,  and 
without  San  Marco.     Two  slender  columns  of  red  granite 
represent  those  of  the  greater  city.     I  visited  the  picture 
gallery,  containing  a  small,  but  interesting  collection.    The 
finest,  as  well  as  the  largest  painting,  was  one  of  Dante  in 
exile,  by  a  modern  artist  named  Peterlino.    It  is  hopeful  as 
to  the  revival  of  art  in  Italy,  as  is  also  the  statue  of  Dante, 
by  Zanzoni,  at  Verona.     The  rough-hewn  countenance  of 
Cromwell  appears  here,  as  well  as  in  a  gallery  at  Florence, 
showing  the  close  intercourse  of  England  with  foreign 
parts  during  the  Protectorate.     There  are  also  specimens 
of  the  handiwork  of  the  mystic  Albert  Durer,  so  powerful 
in  the  fantastic  suggestiveness  of  the  north.    Being  obliged 
to  remain  another  night  at  Vicenza,  I  resolved  not  to  pass 
it  "  Alia  Luna."     (It  is  to  be  hoped  that  our  attendant 


GIOTTO. 


35 


planet  affords  better  quarters  to  her  traditional  inhabitant.) 
I  found  a  much  more  desirable  resting-place  in  the  house 
of  a  Donna  Petrasca. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  October  5th  I  reached  Verona, 
whose  antique  grace  and  grave  grandeur  again  struck  me 
forcibly.  The  Hotel  Torre  di  Londra  provided  me  with 
comfortable  accommodation,  and  the  courtesy  of  the 
attendants  was  remarkable.  A  *'  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  in 
Italian,  which  I  presented  to  the  hotel,  was  gratefully 
received,  and  I  left  the  city  the  next  morning  with  very 
favourable  recollections.  The  sky  was  dazzling  in  its 
cloudless  blue,  and  I  asked  the  vetturino  to  diverge  for  a 
few  moments  from  the  road  to  the  station,  that  I  might 
once  more  gaze  on  the  face  of  Dante,  so  tender  even  in  its 
sternness,  which  now  overlooks,  at  all  seasons,  his  first 
resting-place  in  his  exile.  Again  the  train  bore  me  to 
Peschiera,  where  it  halted  as  before,  and  where  the  guard, 
who  had  waited  so  long  for  the  sight  of  my  ticket  on  my 
first  passage  through  the  place,  recognised  and  greeted 
me  with,  "  Bene !  Ha  fatto  buon  viaggio  ?  Ha  il 
biglietto."  Then,  long  keeping  in  sight  the  blue  waters 
of  the  Lago  di  Garda,  we  sped  on  to  Milan.  This  city 
was  reached  shortly  after  5  p.m.,  and  as  the  train  for 
Genoa  left  a  little  past  six,  I  had  only  time  to  go  into  the 
town  to  obtain  something  whereof  I  was  in  need,  and  to 
see  the  Cathedral  illuminated  by  the  sunset.  The  road  to 
Genoa  runs  direct  south,  through  the  western  plain  of 
Lombardy,  passing  many  of  the  scenes  of  the  wars  of  the 
first  Napoleon.     The  fresh  young  green  of  the  trees  and 

D  2 


36 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


of  the  grass  again  struck  me  as  remarkable  at  that  season. 
Nature  in  Italy  seems  literally  to  fade  in  autumn ;  while 
in  our  latitude  she  puts  on  her  richest  robes  ere  lying 
down  for  her  winter  sleep.  At  11  p.m.,  Saturday,  Oct.  6, 
I  reached  Genoa,  and  a  courteous  fellow-traveller,  an 
Italian,  recommended  me  to  go  to  the  Hotel  Nazionale, 
near  the  station.  Seeing  I  was  alone,  and  lest  I  should 
have  any  difficulty  in  securing  reception  on  that  account, 
he  kindly  conducted  me  himself  across  the  piazza,  where 
the  fine  statue  of  Christopher  Columbus  looks  grandly  and 
sadly  down,  and  saw  me  safely  and  comfortably  ensconced 
in  the  hotel. 


GENOA    AND    THE    RIVIERA. 


37 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GENOA    AND    THE    RIVIERA. 

••  Geneva  la  Superba." 
It  is  somewhat  doubtful  in  what  sense  those  who  first 
gave  that  designation  to  Genoa,  intended  the  word  to  be 
understood,  as  it  means  both  grand  and  proud.  Pro- 
bably, as  in  many  such  cases,  we  are  right  in  receiving 
both  ideas  ;  certainly  the  city,  as  seen  from  the  port,  and 
in  parts  of  the  interior,  is  grand,  and  as  to  the  -pride  of 
the  Genoese  of  old,  history  renders  that  unquestionable. 
They  are  now  a  hard,  money-loving  people,  uncourteous 
for  Italians,  and  altogether  unprepossessing,  somewhat 
resembling  our  Yorkshiremen,  if  these  latter  be  not  slan- 
dered. But  here,  again,  I  think  that  the  flowers  of  the 
plant  should  be  considered  as  at  least  proving  its  capacity, 
and  as,  therefore,  representing  its  real  character.  So  I 
remember  that  Genoa  has  given  to  the  world  Columbus, 
and  to  Italy  Mazzini.  Along  the  Strada  Nuova,  where 
the  latter  was  accosted,  in  his  boyhood,  by  that  suppliant 
for  contributions  for  the  political  exiles  by  whom  his 
thoughts  were  first  turned  towards  Italian  freedom,  I 
walked  the  next  morning  to  the  English  Church,  in  the 
Via  Azzarotti.  Our  service  is  held,  as  is  so  frequent  in 
Italy,  in  two  large  rooms  in  one  of  the  old  palaces.     The 


38 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAriTAL. 


house  is  literally  founded  on  a  rock,  which  rises  abruptly 
behind,  adorned  with  wild  flowers  and  thorny  bushes. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Strettel  preached  a  beautiful  and  touching 
sermon  on  Blind  Bartimeus,  and  I  vividly  felt  the  inca- 
pacity of  the  obstructions  of  space  to  intercept  the  "  com- 
munion of  saints."  They  were  singing  when  I  entered. 
How  sweetly  sounded  those  English  hymns !  Other 
nations,  it  may  be,  are  more  scientifically  musical  than 
we,  yet  in  spite  of  all  that  is  said  in  pur  blame,  there  is  a 
blending  of  joy  and  pathos,  an  ethereal  character  in  our 
English  hymns,  when  heartily  sung,  which  seems  to 
belong  to  them  peculiarly.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  to 
the  place  of  meeting  of  the  Italian  Protestants,  in  the  Via 
Garibaldi,  and  attended  their  service  in  the  evening.  I 
wish  more  had  been  present,  but  unfortunately  the  Italian 
Reformer,  Corrado,  attempts  to  show  the  points  of  contact 
between  Romanism  and  the  truth,  instead  of  urging  all 
who  receive  the  Gospel  to  ''  come  out"  of  the  mystical 
Babylon,  according  to  God's  command,  without  dubitancy 
and  without  delay.  Thus  he  is,  or  was  at  that  time, 
obnoxious  to  both  parties,  and  fully  trusted  by  neither. 
Our  own  Reformers  (all  honour  to  them  !)  if  they  erred 
at  all,  erred  on  the  side  of  reforming  too  little.  Refor- 
mation means  re-fonnation — i.e.,  the  edification  of  a  new 
building  in  place  of  the  old,  the  substitution  of  truth  for 
error.  Indeed,  only  thus  can  error  ever  be  successfully 
opposed,  for  the  mind,  even  more  than  nature,  abhors  a 
vacuum,  and  men  will  never  heartily  cast  away  their  idols 
till  thev  learn  to   know    the   livinc:  God.     It  is  to   be 


GENOA    AND    THE    RIVIERA. 


39 


earnestly  desired  that  the  Holy  Spirit  may  expound  to 
this   sincere,  but  (then  at  least)   semi-enlightened  man 
(many  of  whose  vagaries  are  attributable  to  the  fact  that 
he  is  a  convert  from  Irvingism,  through  God's  blessing, 
as  he  told  me,  on    the    instrumentality   of  that   large- 
hearted  Christian,   Mr.  W.  Hawke,  of  the  Bible   stand. 
Crystal  Palace),  "  the  way  of  God  more  perfectly,"  and, 
in  the  meantime,  that  the  truth  he  preaches,  albeit  mixed 
with  much  "  wood,  hay,  and  stubble,"  may  be  blessed  to 
souls ;  for,  in  spite  of  all,  he  faithfully  declares  salvation 
by   Christ   alone.     May  he,   and  many  others,   soon    be 
taught  that  God   is   going   to    destroy  Romanism,  not 
correct!     The  singing*  at  this  service  surpassed  in  dis- 
cord anything  I  ever  heard  before  or  since.     The  voices 
of  the    Genoese,    harsh   as   their   countenances    (which, 
unfortunately,  do  little  justice  to  their  picturesque  cos- 
tume,— a  white  veil,  thrown  back  from  the  face), — produced 
a  result  to  which  the  croaking  of  frogs  would  have  been 
melody.     Before  the   service  (which  was  the  service  of 
our  English  church  translated  into  Italian,  w^herein    it 
fully  retains  its  simple  beauty  and  grandness),  they  sang 
an  "  atto  di  fe,  di  speranza,  e  di  carita,"  in  the  last  of 
which  each  declared,  rather  vain-gloriously,  "  Amo  a  me 
prossimo   come  a  me  stesso;"  "I  love  my  neighbour  as 
myself."     For   surely  we  need  to  respond  to  the  com- 
mand so  to  do  with  a  prayer.     I  felt  disposed  to  request 
one  poor  woman,  especially,  to  prove  the  fact  by  silence. 
The  witches  of  "Macbeth"  must  have  resembled  these 

*  A  most  cruel  misnomer. 


40 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


women,  both  in   voice   and   features,  and  the    "  horrent 
sodnds"  they  uttered  haunted  me  for  many  days. 

I  was  anxious  to  start  the  next  day  for  Caprera,  and 
all  necessary  inquiries  were  made   for  me  by   a  young 
fellow-countryman    then    at    Genoa,    studying   for   the 
ministry  in  the   English   Church,  and  who,   as  he  may 
prefer  it,  shall  be  nameless,  but  for  whose  kind  courtesy 
I  shall  ever  be   sincerely  grateful.      He  found  that  it 
would  be  impossible  for  me  to  go  as  I  had  proposed,  as 
the   boats   were    not   then    plying   between    Genoa   and 
Caprera,  and  that  I  must  go  from  Livorno,  via  Florence. 
To  put  myself  "  en  route"  for  the  latter  city,  for  which 
my  kind  young  friend  gave  me  some  most  useful  intro- 
ductions, was,  consequently,  the  most  expeditious  way  of 
proceeding,  and  with  that  intent  I  mounted  to  the  impe- 
riale  of  a  diligence  which  loft  Genoa  for  Spezzia  at  5  p.m., 
having  previously  had  a  fine  view  of  the  city,  lying  tran- 
quilly on  the  curved  shore  of  her  silent  sea,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  gardens  crowning  the  Via  Acqua  Sola. 
For  my  fellow-travellers  in  that  eminent  position  I  had, 
besides  the  conduttore,  a  Milanese  and  his  wife.     The 
former  had  the  almost  feminine  features  so  common  in 
the   Milanese  ;    and  when   he  exchanged    his    hat  for   a 
*' fazzoletto,"   so   tied    as   to    correspond  exactly  to  the 
ancient  beretta,  his  face  might  have  passed,  had  it  not 
wanted  the  indescribable  something  of  genius,  for  a  por- 
trait of  Memmi  or  of  Giotto.     As  the  diligence  passed 
the  long  lines  of  former  palaces,  I  noticed  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  city  several  houses  with  frescoes  on  the  exterior, 


GENOA    AND    THE    RIVIERA. 


41 


t 


after  the  manner  of  Verona  and  Padua,  only  that  there 
the  subjects  were  serious  and  chiefly  sacred,  and  here  they 
were  of  a  comic  character. 

The  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  from  Nice  to  Spezzia 
(called  the  Cornice  Road)  are  proverbial  for  their  beauty. 
And,  verily,  that  part  which  I  traversed  on  that  evening 
and  night  and  through  the  following  dawn,  surpassed  in 
loveliness  anything  I  had  ever  seen  in  reality  or  picture. 
I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  indescribable ;  and  yet 
a  few  touches  are  but  due  to  the  reader.  Imagine,  then 
(for  imagination  alone  can  serve  you  here),  bays  (those  of 
Nervi  and  Sori  are  such)  enclosing  small  gulfs  of  the 
deep  tender  blue  of  that  tideless  sea,  to  which  sloped  cliffs 
whereon  were  solemn  pines  growing  straight  from  their 
roots,  and  yet  at  every  possible  angle  to  the  rock,  and 
twisted  olives  with  their  contrasted  foliage  of  greyish 
green.  And,  over  all,  a  sky — sapphire  above,  but  banded 
round  the  horizon  with  all  rainbow  hues,  palpitating  as 
though  with  some  living  though  hidden  consciousness — 
the  evening  star  gazing  from  the  midst  as  with  human 
love  and  meaning.  I  had  written  that  that  star  was 
Venus.  But  I  like  not  to  mingle  with  such  scenes  the 
names  which  bear  sorrowful  witness  to  the  impotency  of 
these  ''  things  that  are  made"  to  draw  to  Him  Who  made 
them  the  hearts  of  those  who  did  not,  and,  alas !  still  do 
not  *'like  to  retain  Him  in  their  knowledge."  Rather 
will  we,  who  know  Him  in  the  Son,  remember  that  He  of 
Whom  the  heavens  thus  "  declare  the  glory "  is  more 
mindful  of  man  than  of  all   these  lower  works  of   His 


I 


42 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


hands,  and  that  while  telling  the  number  of  the  stars  and 
calling  them  all  by  their  names  (having  another  name 
than  Venus  for  that  soft  planet),  He  also 

"  Healeth  the  broken  in  heart,  and  bindeth  up  their  wounds." 

At  Chiavari,  near  to  which  I  remember  reading  that 
there  is  a  burial  ground  where  lie  the  remains  of  some  of 
Garibaldi's  ancestors,  I  was  forced  to  dismount,  being 
impelled  thereto  by  hunger,  which  acted  as  a  reminder, 
amid  the  surrounding  scenes  of  almost  unearthly  loveliness, 
that  I  was  yet  "  in  the  body."  The  Villa  Spinola,  where 
Garibaldi  passed  some  time  after  leaving  8pezzia,  while 
still  disabled  from  the  Aspromonte  wound,  is  near  to 
Chiavari,  and  thus  the  whole  coast  is  full  of  associations 
with  him  and  with  liis  family.  A  most  excellent  portrait 
of  him  ornamented  the  primitive  inn,  where  a  cup  of 
chocolate  proved  most  acceptable.  I  then  re-mounted, 
and  the  diligence  rolled  on  through  the  night,  which 
rendered  spectral  the  scenes  appearing  through  the  intervals 
of  sleep,  and  left  little  distinction  between  waking  and 
sleeping  dreams.  Morning  was  breaking  as  we  approached 
Spezzia,  with  its  exquisite  gulf  filled  with  memories  of  poor 
Shelley,  and,  since,  with  those  of  the  wounded  hero,  who 
lay  here  for  weeks,  in  sufferings  which  the  love  and 
devotion  of  his  people  could  not  remove,  though  doubtless 
they  did  much  to  solace — as  the  sun  first  illuminated  and 
then  dispersed  the  rosy  mists  which  clung  around  sea  and 
shore.  I  entered  the  rooms  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  where 
Garibaldi   rested   at  the  time  alluded  to,  and  where  he 


GENOA    AND    THE    RIVIERA. 


43 


was  waited  on  with  an  affectionate  solicitude,  for  which 
he  "  requests "  travellers  to  favour  the  Hotel  de  Ville ; 
and  I  sat  in  one  of  the  chairs  used  by  him  at  that  time,  but 
whether  that  sent  by  Alderman,  of  Soho  Square,  as  a 
present  from  England,  I  could  not  exactly  learn.  I  think 
not,  however,  for  I  believe  I  saw  it  afterwards  at  Caprera. 
The  hotel  commands,  of  course,  a  beautiful  prospect,  and 
it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  remain  a  little  and  explore 
the  neighbourhood,  but  time,  tide,  and  trains  wait  not, 
and  at  8  o'clock  a.m.,  the  train  started,  which  I  entered 
for  Florence. 


u 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


"  FIRENZE    LA    GENTILE. 

From  Pisa  the  train  ran  inland  in  a  straight  line  to 
Florence.  I  did  not  stop  at  Pisa,  which  was  clearly 
visible  from  the  railway-station  a  little  after  the  train 
started.  It  is  the  most  desolate  of  the  Italian  cities  I 
saw — grey  and  quiet.  The  Leaning  Tower  seemed  an  old 
acquaintance,  and  the  Duomo  stood  afar  off,  coldly  grand, 
not  forming  the  central  object,  as  at  Florence.  This 
position,  like  that  of  St.  Peter's,  at  Rome,  to  my  mind, 
detracts  from  the  grandeur  of  the  building.  You  pass  on 
the  road  from  thence  to  Florence  many  of  those  towns 
situated  on  hills,  which  are  so  picturesque  and  so  charac- 
teristic of  Italian  scenery ;  for  instance,  Empoli,  and 
Capraja,  and  Monte  Lupo,  which  two  latter  now  face 
each  other  in  the  amicable  rivalry  of  contending  claims 
for  admiration.  In  the  fields  between  Pisa  and  Florence, 
I  remember  observing  some  bushes  of  my  favourite  of  all 
flowers  (favourite  for  more  than  one  reason),  viz.,  the 
furze,  otherwise  called  gorse,  or  whin,  in  bright  bloom.  I 
should  scarcely  have  supposed  it  would  have  been  found 
60  far  south  as  Italy. 

At  length  Florence  was  reached  about  2  o'clock  p.m., 
on   the   9th    of   October.     Her  title  of    "la  bella,"    or, 


*• 


*'  FIRENZE    LA    GENTILE." 


45 


according  to  others,  ''la  gentile,"  was  well  supported  by 
the  general  view  as  we  approached,  the  cathedral  at  once 
securing  the  attention  which  was  to  ripen  into  admiring 
wonder.  I  drove  to  the  Hotel  or  Pension  Anglaise,  in 
the  Via  del  Sole,  to  which  my  friend  at  Genoa  had  recom- 
mended me.  The  title  is  also  inscribed  on  the  exterior 
in  English.  The  house  is,  nevertheless,  conducted  by 
Italians,  and  I  found  it  as  pleasant,  and,  in  all  ways,  as 
desirable  a  place  of  sojourn  as  I  had  been  led  to  expect. 

Florence  is  the  Athens  of  Italy.  The  centre  of  interest, 
the  metropolis  of  the  country,  she  is  not,  nor  ever  can  be. 
But  a  gallery  of  the  fine  arts,  combining,  like  all  such 
large  towns,  the  refinements  of  civilised  life  with  the 
seclusion  of  privacy,  if  such  is  desired — this  is  what  she 
is.  The  birth-place  of  Dante — the  death-place  (if  such 
a  word  is  allowable)  of  Elizabeth  B.  Browning — the 
treasure-house  of  the  paintings  of  Giotto  and  Era 
Angelico — the  town  of  which  it  may  be  said,  without 
much  fear  of  a  dissentient  voice, 

"  Of  all  the  fairest  cities  of  the  earth, 

None  is  so  fair  as  Florence."— Sogers. 

(that  is  to  say,  in  her  own  peculiar  beauty,  a  blending  of 
modern  elegance  with  the  dark  grandeur  of  the  structures 
of  the  past,  standing,  not  in  ruins,  as  at  Rome,  but  whole 
in  their  massive  sternness) — ^this  is  enough  for  her, 
without  the  attempt,  which  can  never  succeed,  of  trans- 
fering  to  her  the  intransferable  associations  of  centuries. 
The   **new  capital  of   Italy?"     No — that  she  is  not.     I 


4G 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


believe  to  make   a  new  capital  in  an  old  country  is  as 
impossible  as  to  make  a  new  language. 

There  is  a  curious  mixture  of  the  ancient  and  the 
modern  in  Florence.  Many  of  the  narrow  streets,  paved 
with  the  freestone  of  Boboli,  terminate  in  the  square  of 
the  Signoria,  whence  diverge  the  omnibuses  of  the  present 
to  all  parts  of  the  city. 

The  Duomo  of  Florence  was,  to  my  eye  and  mind,  the 
grandest  building,  exclusive  of  the  power  of  association, 
that  I  saw  in  Italy.  The  saying  of  Michael  Angelo 
respecting  the  cupola,  "  Come  te  non  voglio,  meglio  di  te 
non  posso,"*  is  well  known.  The  walls  of  black  and 
white  marble,  crowned  with  that  stupendous  dome,  form 
an  edifice  which  at  noon,  beneath  the  sapphire  sky,  and 
at  night,  beneath  the  starry  or  moonlit  heavens,  impresses 
the  senses  and  the  thoughts  almost  overpoweringly.  Well 
might  Dante  love  to  sit  on  a  chair  at  the  point  marked  on 
the  pavement  as  his  "  Sasso,"  and  to  contemplate  that 
mighty  mass.  There  is  a  mixture  of  the  sublime  and  the 
tender  in  such  monuments,  the  dark  sadness  of  this  Duomo 
representing  in  stone  the  spirit  of  the  years  during  which 
she  has  watched  over  the  destinies  of  the  city.  Close  by 
rises  the  Campanile  of  Giotto,  surely  more  beautiful  as  it 
is  than  if  crowned  with  the  spire  he  had  proposed.  Many 
such  hindrances  to  the  completion  of  works  of  art,  accord- 
ing to  the  idea  of  the  artist,  which  at  the  time  are  thought 
unfortunate,  prove  quite  otherwise.  I  ascended  that 
Campanile,  and  had  a  glorious  view  of  the  city  and  the 
*  "  Like  thee  I  will  not ;  better  I  cannot." 


"firenze  la  gentile." 


47 


country  round.  There  went  the  Arno,  its  yellow  waters 
slowly  winding,  the  hills  of  San  Miniato  and  Fiesole, 
crowned  with  cypresses,  rising  beyond.  To  the  left,  past 
the  Duomo,  the  Badia  pointed  upward,  its  low  red  spire 
marking  the  street  rendered  sacred  by  the  birth  of  Dante. 
Close  by  this  last  was  the  tower  of  the  Bargello,  often 
used  in  ancient  times  as  well  as  in  modern  as  a  state 
prison,  now  as  a  musaeum,  and  one  of  the  most  interesting 
Florentine  monuments,  to  be  described  afterwards.  In 
the  centre  of  the  city,  beyond  the  Duomo,  was  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  with  its  high  embattled  tower,  which,  like  the 
Duomo,  is  a  most  striking  object  in  a  distant  view  of 
Florence.  The  gallery  of  the  Uffizi  stretches  from  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio  to  that  of  the  Pitti,  a  covered  way  passing 
beneath  the  Arno,  connecting  them  w^ith  each  other.  In 
another  direction  you  saw  the  tower  of  Santa  Maria 
Novella,  a  church  very  much  admired  for  its  architecture, 
so  much  so,  that  it  was  called  La  Sposa,  or  the  Bride. 
Externally,  however,  it  was  not,  to  my  eye,  attractive 
though  blending  well, — as  in  all  general  views,  individual 
features,  even  though  themselves  uninviting,  do  blend 
beauty  being  so  much  stronger  than  ugliness  that  it 
always  overcomes  in  the  mass, — with  the  rest  of  the 
structures  forming  the  picture,  among  which  structures, 
in  the  opposite  quarter,  was  Santa  Croce,  in  its  ghostly 
whiteness.  The  art  galleries  of  the  Uffizi  and  the  Pitti 
seem  endless,  and  do  indeed  extend  for  miles.  Anything 
like  a  full  examination  of  them  was,  of  course,  impossible  • 
and   therefore,  while   there   were   objects   which   it  was 


48 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


absolutely  essential  to  see,  such  as  the  Venus  dei  Medici, 
it  was  best  to  allow  the  paintings  and  statues  to  give  their 
own  message,  and  to  follow  the  guidance  of  the  feelings 
they  inspired.  To  me,  Giotto  still  spake  as  did  none 
other.  Passages  by  him  from  the  life  of  Jesus,  especially 
from  its  closing  scenes  on  earth,  chained  my  steps  and 
riveted  my  eye.  Farther  on  was  a  picture  of  the  Virgin 
and  Child,  by  Fra  Angelico  (the  Virgin  being  uncrowned, 
the  Christian's  heart  is  not  distressed  by  the  blasphemous 
adoration  of  the  creature),  in  which  the  colouring,  at  once 
bright  and  delicate,  the  ethereal  loveliness  of  the  angels 
in  the  predella,  and  the  pure  beauty  of  the  mother  and 
the  child,  form  a  whole  which  both  attracts  and  affects 
profoundly.  While  gazing  on  this  and  on  other  marvels 
of  Italian  genius,  the  question  would  suggest  itself  whether 
this  perfection  in  pictorial  art  had  any  necessary  connec- 
tion with  the  deadening  of  spiritual  life  throughout  the 
beautiful  but  unhappy  country.  My  conclusion  was  not 
necessary^  though  perhaps  it  has  been  very  close.  Of 
course  I  exempt  from  this  argument  all  pictures  in  which 
error  is  spoken  by  the  pencil,  as  in  paintings  representing 
the  Virgin  crowned,  or  any  mere  creature  as  worshipped.* 
But  where  the  delineation  is  simply  Scriptural,  I  do  not 
believe  that  it  can  produce  any  harmful  effect,  but  wholly 
the  contrary,  when  not  employed,  even  in  symbol,  either 

*  It  would  seem  that  the  earliest  instances  of  this  perversion  bf 
painting  were  of  the  Byzantine  school,  and  that  thus  the  idolatry- 
of  pictures,  as  well  as  other  kinds  of  spiritual  and  material  idolatry, 
had  its  rrigin  in  the  East. 


"FIRENZE    LA    GENTILE." 


49 


as  an  object  of  or  an  incentive  to  worship,  in  which  rela- 
tion we  are  forbidden  to  use  ''pleasant  pictures,"  where- 
fore their  introduction  into  churches  must  be  always  and 
for  ever  unlawful.     Some,  for  this  reason,  consider  all 
representations,  even  of  the  humanity  of  our  Lord,  to  be 
unallowable,  because  they  believe  that,  except  when  mere 
daubs,  which  offend   by  irreverence,  they  must  lead  us 
instinctively  to  adoration,  and  God  has  told  us  not  to 
"make  to  ourselves   any  image"   to   which   we  should 
"  bow  down  "  or  which  we  should  "worship."     However, 
I  think  this  objection  is  met  by  the  remembrance  that 
Jesus    voluntarily,    for   our   sakes,   put  off    His  divine 
glory  when,  for  us,  "A  Man  of  Sorrows;"  and  that  His 
disciples  when  they  worshipped  Him  during  the  days  of 
His  humiliation,  did  so  in  consequence  of  some  evidence 
He  had  given  in  His  acts  of  divine  power,  and  in  conse- 
quence  of   what   they  had   read   in   the  prophets,    and 
believed  concerning  him.     In   a  word,  they  worshipped 
Him  from  what  they  Tcnew  and  believed,  not  from  what 
they  SAW.     For  although  we  are  very  sure  that  to  those 
who   loved    Him,    that   "  tender   plant "  had    a   beauty 
altogether   Its   own,   and   that   to  them   that    "  visage 
marred  more  than  any  man's,"  was  fair  beyond  all  others, 
yet  it  is  expressly  mentioned  after  the  Eesurrection,  that 
"  when  they  saw  Him  they  worshipped  Him."     If,  there- 
fore, any  delineations  of  the  Son  of  Man  are  unlawful, 
they   are   those   that  attempt  to  depict  Him  when  His 
essential  deity  was  no  longer  veiled  as  it  was  when  He 
for  us  "  made  himself  of  no  reputation."     This  unlaw- 


50 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


fulness  would,  therefore,  include  such  subjects  as  the 
Resurrection,  the  Supper  at  Emmaus,  as  well  as  the 
other  scenes  of  those  forty  days,  the  Ascension,  and 
perhaps,  for  the  above  reason,  the  Transfiguration.  This 
whole  question  was  suggested  to  my  mind,  some  months 
after  my  return  from  Italy,  by  the  earnest  and  noble 
homily  of  our  church  on  the  peril  of  idolatry.  But 
while  my  iconoclastic  zeal  would  go  the  length  of  willing- 
ness that  the  paintings  even  of  Giotto  and  Angelico 
should  perish  from  the  earth  ere  such  should  be  intro- 
duced into  our  sanctuaries,  I  yet  honestly  believe  that  it 
is  perfectly  allowable  to  attempt  to  depict,  as  imperfectly 
as  needs  must  be,  even  in  its  humiliation,  the  human 
form  of  Him  Who  is  also  "  equal  with  the  Father  as 
touching  his  Godhead,"  the  two  natures  being  whole  and 
distinct,  although  "joined  together  in  One  Person,  never 
to  be  divided." 

This  question  apart,  it  does  appear  but  too  certain  that 
the  very  exquisite  beauty  of  such  representations  in 
Italy,  has,  too  often,  while  satisfying  the  eye  and  the 
sense  of  the  Italian,  caused  him  to  forget  the  necessity  of 
fixing  the  eye  of  his  soul  upon  Jesus  Himself,  who, 
though  invisible  to  the  outward  sight,  is  present  to  the 
inward  eye  by  faith,  that  " evidence  of  things  not  seen" 
Nothing  will  stand  in  stead  of  that  "  look  of  the  soul." 
But  man  is  ever  and  everywhere  seeking  to  put  something 
in  its  place.  One  day  Jesus  will  appear  again,  so  coming 
"  as  He  was  seen  to  go."  Wliich  of  us  will  He  not 
startle  when  He  calls  us,  as  He  called  Mary,  by  name  ? 


"  FIRENZE    LA    GENTILE." 


51 


Which  of  us  will  at  once  greet  Him  with  mingled  adora- 
tion and  love  as  *'  Rabboni?  "  Only  those  who  see  Him 
now  by  faith.  By  that  inner  eye  alone  can  we  learn  to 
know  Him.  No  looking  on  the  first  among  paintings  will 
teach  us  that.  They  who  so  know  Him  notv,  will  recognize 
Him  then,  and  when  they  see  Him  will  "  worship  Him  " 
indeed.  It  is  because  He  truly  lives  "  that  same  Jesus," 
that  we  are  forbidden  to  anticipate  that  worship  of  Him- 
self, except  by  worshipping  Ilhn  now  as  invisible^  Who  will 
one  day  be  adored  in  His  revealed  glory.  To  those,  how- 
ever, who  do  "  know  Him  now  by  faith,"  and  who  think 
not  to  put  an  illusory  feeling  in  the  place  of  that  one 
source  of  true  communion  with  Him  here,  I  believe  that 
representations  of  Him  they  love,  in  His  humiliation,  will 
be  beneficial  as  well  as  precious.  I  cannot  think  that  God 
has  set  a  ban  upon  any  channel  of  pure  emotion,  and  I 
feel  sure  that  nothing  but  Christian  faith  in  its  spiritual 
reality  could  have  guided  the  pencil  of  such  as  Giotto. 
And  while,  alas,  it  is  but  too  true  that  the  rich  artistic 
gifts  of  the  sons  of  Italy  seem  in  too  many  instances  to 
have  blinded  the  eyes  of  many  amongst  them,  and  to  have 
been  "  as  a  very  lovely  song,"  lulling  into  the  slumber  of 
insensibility  instead  of  guiding  into  the  rest  of  faith,  yet 
we  must  remember  that  the  very  abuse  of  such  gifts  proves 
the  greatness  of  their  power,  and  how  noble  is  their  use 
when  held  and  employed  as  He  would  have  them  to  be 
Who  gave  them.  The  Painter  of  the  sky  loves  painting  ; 
and,  doubtless.  He  made  this  His  glorious  gift  a  means 
of  teaching  simple  hearts  many  a  valuable  truth  in  days 

E  2 


52 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


when  the  "  Word  of  the  Lord  was  precious,"  or  scarce, 
and   there   was   little  "  open    vision."      Komanism  has 
always   hated  and  songht  to  hide  the  fact  that  ''  Jesus 
Christ  is  come  in  the  flesh,"  i.e.,  the  essential  humanity  of 
the  Saviour.     This  she  virtually  denies  when  she  declares 
that  His  heart  needs  to  be  moved  by  the  intercessions  of 
His  mother,  as  well  as  when  she   pretends  to  sacrifice 
afresh    His   precious   body  now  raised,  and   glorified  in 
Heaven.    These  touching  stories  on  canvas  spoke  to  many 
an  eye  that  could  not  decipher  or  reach  the  pages  of  the 
Inspired   Volume,    and,    without    doubt,   many   a   heart 
responded,  "  Lord,  I  believe."     Some  of  these  paintings 
are  but  hymns  written  with  the  brush ;  only  another  way 
of  expressing — 

"  When  I  survey  the  wondrous  Cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died, 
My  richest  gain  I  count  but  loss, 
And  pour  contempt  on  all  my  pride." 

Of  the  paintings  in  the  Accademia  delle  belle  Arti,  at 
Florence,  two  especially  engaged  my  admiration—"  The 
Adoration  of  the  Magi,"  by  Gentile  da  Fabriano,  and 
''  The  Deposition  from  the  Cross,"  by  Fra  Angelico.  The 
former  sparkles  with  brilliant  colour,  and  yet  so  great  and 
so  true  is  the  expression,  that  the  scene  itself  occupies  the 
thoughts.  One  of  the  kings  has  already  taken  off  his 
crown,  literally  resplendent  with  gems,  and  is  kneeling 
before  the  Infant ;  another  is  removing  his ;  while  the 
third  stands  awaiting  his  turn  to  approach.  The  Child  is 
the  centre  of  all  attraction,  the  entire  picture  being  sub- 


"  FIRENZE    LA    GENTILE. 


i» 


53 


dued  to  that  principal  object.  The  animals  depicted  in  the 
predella,  i.e.,  the  ox  and  the  ass,  overlooking  the  birth- 
place of  the  Infant,  are  marvellously  given ;  the  wonder 
almost  reaching  to  inquiry  with  which  they  regard  the 
scene,  yet  does  not  transcend  the  bounds  of  their  lower 
faculties,  so  that  there  is  nothing  in  it  affected  or  un- 
natural. But  this  painting,  beautiful  as  it  is,  yet  sank 
into  insignificance  beside  "  The  Deposition,"  the  picture 
of  pictures  in  Italy  to  me,  with  the  exception  of  the  works 

of  Giotto. 

♦*  Friend  of  sinners !     Spotless  Lamb ! 
Thy  blood  was  shed  for  me." 

So  says  the  painting.  From  that  pale  form,  lying  in 
the  arms  of  sinners  whom  He  has  ransomed,  every  drop 
of  that  red  stream,  which  is  the  life  of  our  flesh,  seems  to 
have  departed.  But  the  majesty  of  Peace,  the  ineffable 
tenderness  of  Love,  which  breathe  from  the  forsaken  face 
and  form,  tell  of  the  Holy  One,  Who  triumphed  by  yield- 
ing Himself  as  a  victim,  through  death  destroying  death. 
Hushed  silence  fills  the  picture  as  an  atmosphere ;  deep 
grief,  indeed,  is  on  the  faces  of  all  around,  but  the  whole 
scene  speaks  of  a  work  fulfilled.  He  Who  has  thus  "  over- 
come the  sharpness  of  death  has,  verily,  opened  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  to  all  believers." 

Gems  of  art  are  scattered  all  over  Florence,  herself,  as 
we  have  said,  a  picture  of  such  marvellous  beauty.  In 
my  room  at  the  hotel  was  one  of  the  innumerable  copies 
of  the  Virgin  of  Sassoferrato.  In  this,  also,  there  is 
nothing  to  offend  or  to  distress.     It  is  simply  the  mother, 


54 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


the  woman,  the  Christian ;  the  mother,  through  whom 
went  so  sharp  a  sword ;  the  woman,  who  "  hid  all  those 
things  and  pondered  them  in  her  heart,"  merging  her 
own  sorrow  in  the  sympathy  which,  thongh  it  might  not 
hinder  the  work  of  agony,  yet,  doubtless,  soothed  the  true 
humanity  of  Him  by  Whose  cross  she  stood ;  the  Chris- 
tian, who  trusted  in  "  God  her  Saviour."  The  tenderness 
and  love  of  nature,  and  the  faith  and  love  of  grace. 

The  wonderful  head  of  the  "  Medusa,"  by  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  is  in  the  gallery  of  the  Uffizi. 

In  a  dark,  narrow  street,  leading  from  the  Badia  (Ab- 
badia  or  Abbey),  is  a  small  house,  seemingly  just  now 
uninhabited,  bearing  the  inscription, 

"  Qui  nacque  il  divino  Poeta."  * 

Dante,  then,  entered  earth  by  this  small  door.  Not 
much  beyond  is  the  Bargello,  in  whose  dungeons, 
cold  and  damp,  though  far  superior  to  the  "Pozzi" 
of  Venice,  lay  Francesco  and  Rosa  Madiai,  those  two 
among  the  many  sufferers  from  Eomanism  in  modern 
times.  The  upper  rooms  of  the  Bargello  are  used  as  a 
museum,  and  at  the  end  of  one  is  the  fresco  of  "  Paradise," 
by  Giotto,  one  of  the  greatest  treasures  of  Florence, 
wherein  stands  the  youthful  Dante,  holding  the  mystic 
fruit.  The  figure  is  dim  and  shadowy,  like  one  of  those 
he  met  in  his  ghostly  wanderings.  Close  by  is  Beatrice, 
equally  ethereal  in  form ;  she  is  rather  nearer  to  the 
central  glory,  and  turns  with  a  smile,  as  though  both  to 

*  "  Here  was  born  the  divine  poet." 


''  FIRENZE    LA    GENTILE." 


55 


welcome  and  encourage.     Yes,  they  are  near;  there  in 
symbol,  but  nearer  now  in  reality. 

The  friendship  of  Giotto  and  Dante  must  have  been  one 
of  those  fellowships  in  which  God  provides  for  the  lone- 
liness of  genius.     They   were   kindred  spirits,  and  must 
have   been  mutual  comforters   as  well  as  artistic  fellow- 
helpers.     The  poet-painter,  earnest  and  tender  (though  no 
tenderer  than  Dante),  very  probably  gained  in  power  from 
the  vivid  utterances  of  his  friend ;  while  the  painter-poet 
was,  doubtless,  often  soothed  in  the  fierce  sufferings  caused 
by  the  intensity  and  objectiveness  of  his  genius  by  the 
calming  sympathy  of  the  more  subjective  Giotto.     Dante 
was  subjective*  in  character,  from  the  self-consciousness  of 
suffering ;  and,  consequently,  as  is   so  often  the  case  with 
such,  was  eminently  objective  in  his  works.     John  Bunyan 
was  another  similar  instance.     Giotto  evidently  drew  his 
power  in  the  objective  art  of  painting  from  the  strength  of 
his  subjective  emotions.     The  expression  of  the  works  of 
Giotto  and  of  Dante  is  very  similar,  although  those  of  Giotto 
are  gentler,  and  altogether  less  in  degree  ;  but  every  poem 
of  Dante  is  a  painting,  and  every  painting  of  Giotto  is  a 
poem. 

There  are  some  frescoes  on  the  walls  of  the  large  hall  of 
the  Bargello,  fine  in  design,  though  poor  as  paintings. 
With  few  exceptions  they  are  copies  of  the  frescoes  of 

♦Although  the  terms  objective  and  subjective  are  sometimes 
characterized  as  affected,  the  charge  is  groundless,  since,  as  there 
are  no  other  words  which  express  the  same  meaning,  they  must 
be  used. 


56 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


Andrea  del  Castagno.  One  of  the  exceptions  is  the 
"  Calumny  "  and  "  Innocence "  of  Michael  Angelo,  the 
former  being  represented  by  one  of  his  figures  of  the  Three 
Fates,  forcible  as  a  specimen  of  his  tragic  power,  while  the 
figure  of  '*  Innocence  "  is  light  and  graceful,  with  a  delicacy 
rarely  seen  in  the  works  of  that  Master  of  the  Sublime. 
*'  The  Cum^an  Sibyl,"  and  the  alarming  form  of  "  Farinata 
degli  Uberti  "  (whose  one  vote  prevented  the  destruction  of 
Florence  when  the  removal  of  the  capital  of  Tuscany  to 
Empoli  was  proposed)  in  his  grotesque  costume,  are 
noticeable  among  the  frescoes  of  Andrea  del  Castagno. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 


57 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 

*  '•  Qui  scrisse  e  mori 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

Che  a  scienza  di  dotta  conciliava 

cuore  di  donna  e 

genio  di  poeta, 

e  fece  coi  sui  versi  aureo  anello 

fra  Italia  ed  Inghilterra. 

Pone  questa  memoria 

Firenze  grata. 

1861." 

These  words  are  inscribed  over  the  door  of  Casa  Guidi, 
the  house  where  died  the  greatest  English  poetess,  if  she 
were  not  also  the  greatest  poet  of  modern  times.  Casa 
Guidi  stands  on  the  south  side  of  the  river,  the  Southwark 
of  Florence,  and  is  reached  by  crossing  the  Ponte  delle 
Grazie.  It  is  not  far  from  the  Pitti  Palace,  and  the  room 
where  Elizabeth  Browning  died  faces  the  Church  of  San 
Felice,  at  the  back  of  the  Lungarno.  The  bleak  air  of 
Florence,  full  of  the  chill  of  the  Apennines  (for  the  bright 
sun  of  the  Etruscan  city  does  not  effectually  temper  the 
keenness  of  these  winds  in  the  winter  and  spring)  was  not 

*  Here  wrote  and  died  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  who  to  a 
student's  learning  united  a  woman's  heart  and  a  poet's  genius,  and 
by  her  verses  made  a  golden  link  between  Italy  and  England.  This 
memorial  was  erected  by  grateful  Florence,  1861. 


58 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 


59 


the  most  suitable  atmosphere  for  a  delicate  chest.  We  will 
not  say  that  it  shortened  the  poet's  life,  for  to  do  that  is  in 
the  power  of  no  outward  influence.  She  went  because 
God  called  her ;  but,  perchance,  His  messenger  was  some 
sharp  blast  from  the  neighbouring  mountains. 

She  is  described  by  those  who  knew  her  as  a  slight, 
fragile  creature ;  seemingly,  to  eyes  that  look  on  things  after 
the  outward  appearance,  too  frail  for  the  wear  and  tear  of 
life.  Perhaps,  with  almost  the  single  exception  of  Shake- 
speare (and  for  this  exception  the  reason  is  evident  in  the 
very  character  and  width  of  his  genius),  all  the  greatest 
minds  have  tenanted  such  frail  bodies  :  bodies  frail,  at  least, 
to  the  eye,  but  proving,  in  most  instances,  better  and  more 
faithful  servants  than  the  stronger  forms  of  robust  health. 
Bodily,  we  say  not  weakness,  but  fragility,  is  in  relation 
to  genius  both  effect  and  aid.  The  mind,  in  such  cases, 
while  in  some  measure  it  "  o'er  informs  its  tenement  of 
clay,"  yet  keeps  the  material  machinery  going  with  an 
activity  which  often  serves  as  an  effectual  defence  against 
some  of  the  worst  "  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to,"  while  the 
susceptibility  of  the  nerves,  those  wonderful  links  between 
mind  and  body,  that  is  necessarily  associated  with  a  fragile 
organization,  opens  many  an  avenue  of  inward  perception 
that  had  else  remained  closed,  so  that  whole  regions  of 
thought  and  feeling  are  the  heritage  of  such  persons  almost 
exclusively.  Tliey  live  by  their  minds  (by  which  insuffi- 
cient word  we  mean  the  whole  inner  nature,  emotional  as 
well  as  intellectual — for  intellectual  vigour  alone  has  no 
necessary  connection  with  genius),  and,  at  the  appointed 


moment,  die  by  them.    What  an  intense  inner  life  throbbed 

within  these  walls,  until  at  last  the  doors  of  the  flesh  were 

opened,  and  the  spirit  fled  !    The  thrilling  phases  of  Italy's 

story,  which,  alas  !  have  so  often  proved  but  bright  figures 

in  the  kaleidoscope  of  change,  had  each  a  place  in  her 

heart's  care  as  well  as  in  her  eye's  vision,  as  "  Casa  Guidi 

windows"  abundantly  show.  '*  Aurora  Leigh,"  that  typical 

poem  of  this  nineteenth  century,  though  true  to  the  heart's 

history  in  all  ages,  was,  I  believe,  written  in  England. 

However   vivid  and   deep  were   her   Italian   sympathies, 

E.  B.  B.  was  an  Englishwoman  at  heart,  being,  for  that 

very  reason,  no  mere  nominal  friend  to  the  cause  of  Italy. 

Here,  on  the  21st  July,  1861,  she  died.     This  house  was, 

therefore,  to  me  the  most  sacred  spot  in  Florence,  more 

sacred  even  than  the  small  house  in  the  dark  street  by  the 

Badia.     There  Dante  was  born ;  here  Elizabeth  Browning 

died.    The  one  was  the  entrance-door  to  earth ;  the  other 

to  heaven.     For,  thank  God !  we  have  no  doubt  whither 

has  fled  the  spirit  of  the  humble  Christian. 

New  occupants  are  now  in  Casa  Guidi,  and  the  rooms 

she  had  tenanted  were  locked.     Careless  faces  and  heedless 

voices  passed  me  as  I  sat  for  a  few  moments  on  the  stair 

outside  those  rooms  which  had  been  so  filled  with  *'  the 

mysteries  of  life  and  death."     Poetry,  faith,  hope,  love  are 

immortal.     It  matters  little  that  bodies  perish  and  houses 

decay. 

"  Soon  all  vision-  waxes  dull, 
Men  whisper,  he  is  dying ; 
We  cry  no  more  '  Be  pitiful ! ' 
We  have  no  strength  for  crying. 


60 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 

No  strength  ?     No  need.     Then,  soul  of  mine, 

Look  up  and  triumph  rather ; 
Lo !  in  the  depths  of  God's  Divine 

The  Son  adjures  the  Father, 

Be  pitiful,  0  God !  "—  E.  B.  B. 


I  visited  her  grave  in  the  English  cemetery,  just  out- 
side one  of  the  city  gates,  I  think  the  Porta  San  Sebas- 
tiano.  The  tomb  is  of  white  marble,  marked  with  the 
lily  of  Florence,  and  a  medallion  portrait  of  her  whose 
ashes  lie  within,  also  carved  in  the  marble.  The  only 
inscription  is  E.  B.  B.,  and  the  date  of  her  death.  The 
lines  which  close  this  chapter  may  well  serve  as  her 
epitaph. 

From  the  cemetery  the  eye  wanders  over  the  lovely 
environs  of  Florence,  resting  on  the  Vallambrosa  of 
Milton,  whose  dark  trees  are  visible  not  far  beyond,  lying, 
at  the  time  I  stood  there,  bathed  in  the  blue  of  evening 
and  of  distance. 

While  her  soul  "  goes  marching  on"  upon  earth  in  the 
undying  life  of  a  poet's  song  and  influence,  we  who  love 
her  best  can  "  thank  God  for  her  departure  in  His  faith 
and  fear."  Her  poet's  course  was  well  run ;  and  had  it 
been  otherwise — had  it  seemed  that  death  had  met  her 
half  way,  before  her  whole  message  had  been  delivered — 
what  had  even  that  regret  been  in  comparison  of  the  joy 
which  can  say  as  she  asked — 

"  The  fondest  of  us  all ; 
Not  a  tear  on  her  must  fall : 
He  giveth  His  Beloved  sleep." 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING. 


61 


«< 


0,  Death !     0,  crowned  Death  !     Pale-steeded  Death ! 

Whose  name  doth  make  our  respiratioa  brief. 

Thou  of  the  Shrouded  Face,  whom  to  have  seen 

Is  to  be  very  awful  like  thyself. 

Thou  whom  all  Flesh  shall  see !  Thou  whose  dread  touch 

Changes  all  Beauty  into  what  we  fear — 

Changes  all  Glory  into  what  we  tread — 

Genius  to  Silence— Strength  to  Nothingness — 

And  Love — not  Love — thou  hast  no  change  for  Love. 

My  heart  is  armed  not  in  panoply 

Of  Roman  iron — nor  assumes 

The  Stoic's  valour.     'Tis  a  human  heart, 

And  so  confesses  with  a  human  fear, 

That  only  for  the  Hope  the  Cross  inspires. 

That  only  for  the  Man  Who  Died  and  Lives, 

'Twould  crouch  beneath  thy  sceptre's  royalty 

With  faintness  of  the  pulse,  and  backward  cling 

To  life.     But  knowing  what  I  soothly  know, 

High -seeming  Death !  I  dare  thee. .  And  have  hope, 

In  God's  good  time,  to  show  before  thy  face 

An  unsuccumbing  spirit,  which  sublime 

Shall  put  away  the  low  anxieties 

That  wait  upon  the  Flesh, 

And  enter  that  Eternity  to  come, 

Where  live  the  dead,  and  only  Death  can  die."— E.  B.  B. 


62 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


THE  PALAZZO  VECCHIO  AND  TOMBS  OF  THE  MEDICI.       63 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    PALAZZO   VECCHIO,    AND    THE    TOMBS    OF   THE    MEDICI. 

The  Italian  Parliament  now  meets  in  the  old  Ducal  Palace 
of  Florence.  You  enter  by  a  vestibule,  in  the  centre  of 
which  is  a  circle  of  round  pillars  richly  covered  with  ara- 
besques, then  mount  a  broad  staircase  to  the  rooms  in 
which  the  Parliament  is  held,  which  are  of  vast  size.  The 
walls  are  adorned  with  frescoes  by  Vasari,  representing 
various  scenes  of  Florentine  history.  If  outward  gran- 
deur were  the  secret  of  national  greatness,  these  halls 
would  secure  it ;  but  it  is  earnestly  to  be  desired  that  the 
real  may  take  the  place  of  the  apparent  in  Italy,  and  that 
what  so  often  proves  empty  declamation  may  be  exchanged 
for  calm  thought  and  resolute  achievement.  But,  alas  ! 
she  has  so  many  grave  questions  yet  unsettled.  There  is 
Rome,  still  the  centre  of  darkness  and  oppression,  and 
there  are  the  masses  of  the  people  still  lost  in  indifference 
and  infidelity.  Can  there  be  progress  before  the  right 
way  is  entered  ?  If  there  be,  it  must  be  synonymous  with 
decadence,  not  with  elevation.  The  truth,  God's  truth, 
is  what  Italy  needs,  even  to  give  form  and  substance  to 
her  glowing  dreams. 

Over    the  council-chambers    are    the    rooms    formerly 
tenanted  by  the  Medici,  with  their  luxurious  appointments 


i 


and  glittering  ornaments,  gaudy  though  unoccupied,  the 
Senator  who  resides  in  the  Palazzo  seeming  to  make  use 
of  few  of  these  rooms.  There  hangs  the  portrait  of  Leo  X., 
with  his  satisfied  and  indolent  intellectualism.  In  a  cor- 
ridor leading  to  the  Uffizi  galleries  are  the  portraits  of  all 
the  dukes  of  the  house.  With  more  intellectual  vigour 
and  force  of  character,  the  Medici  somewhat  resembled  our 
Stuarts ;  though,  perhaps,  less  of  physical  beauty  fell  to 
their  share.  Yet  there  are  faces  among  those  of  the 
earlier  members  of  the  family  which,  in  their  refined 
voluptuousness  and  haughty  self-complacency,  recall  the 
pictures  at  Holyrood.  Some  fine  statues  by  Michael 
Angelo,  amongst  others  his  "Victory,"  adorn  some  of 
these  apartments;  and,  returning  to  the  Parliament- 
chamber,  we  observe  at  one  end  a  remarkable  group,  by  a 
sculptor  whose  name  has  escaped  me,  representing  "  The 
Fall."  Eve  stands  holding  out  to  Adam  the  fruit  which 
she  has  already  tasted,  and  which  she  received  from  the 
woman-faced  serpent,  whose  head  appears  round  the  trunk 
of  the  tree,  and  who  is  watching  the  scene  with  an  ex- 
pression of  triumphant  malignity.  That  was  a  strange 
conceit  of  the  writers  of  the  middle  ages  which  is  here  em- 
bodied in  sculpture,  i.e.,  the  giving  of  a  female  head  to  the 
Tempter.  One  scarcely  knows  what  they  intended  to 
convey  by  it,  nor  has  it  any  analogy  in  truth,  for  however 
easily  deceived  a  woman  may  be,  she  is  rarely  so  by 
another  woman.  It  is  remarkable,  though  the  deliberators 
are  hardly  likely  to  think  of  it,  that  the  sin  whence  sprang 
earth's  after  curse  and  sadness  should  be  represented  in  the 


T 


A 


/ 


64 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


hall  where  the  concerns  of  the  nation  are  debated.  Would 
that  men  always  and  everywhere  kept  the  Fall  in  remem- 
brance !  It  would  lead  them  joyfully  to  accept  the  offered 
restoration. 

"  Although  our  crown  of  bliss  is  gone, 
Jesus  died. 
We  may  be  cleansed  from  every  stain, 
We  may  be  crowned  with  bliss  again, 
And  in  the  land  of  pleasure  reign. 
Jesus  died." 

The  abuses  of  a  country  will  never  be  corrected  so  long 
as  they  are  unacknowledged,  and  the  labours  for  the  im- 
provement of  a  people,  which  are  the  work  of  every  efficient 
Parliament,  may  well  suggest  to  the  labourers  the  question 
whether  they  themselves  are  still  captives  of  the  Tyrant  of 
tyrants,  or  whether  they  have  returned  to  their  allegiance 
to  Him  "  Whose  service  is  perfect  freedom." 

The  entrance  to  the  Uffizi  gallery  is  by  a  large  door  at 
the  side  of  the  building,  near  to  which  is  the  statue  of 
David,  by  Michael  Angelo.  The  stripling  is  setting  out 
to  confront  the  Philistine,  and  seems  to  be  uttering  the 
reproachful  rejoinder  to  his  haughty  brother,  "  What  have 
I  now  done  ?     Is  there  not  a  cause  ?  " 

The  dark  loggia  of  Orcagna  fronts  the  entrance  to  the 
Uffizi.  This  loggia  is  filled  with  master-pieces  of  sculpture, 
ancient  and  modem ;  but,  as  the  arrangement  is  not  yet 
completed,  you  are  at  present  only  allowed  to  see  what  you 
can  from  a  respectful  distance.  A  covered  gallery,  which 
must  be  subterranean  as  the  Amo  intervenes,  unites  the 
Uffizi  with  the   Pitti  Palace,  where  is  an  equally  larg« 


i 


♦ 


i 


THE  PALAZZO  VECCHIO  AND  TOMBS  OF  THE  MEDICI.   65 

collection  of  painting  and  art  treasures,  so  that  the  door 
of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  of  Florence  admits  to  a  gathered 
store  of  wonders,  perhaps  unparalleled  in  extent  in  the 
world — for  Versailles  does  not,  probably,  equal  in  this 
respect  the  united  galleries  of  the  Uffizi  and  the  Pitti ; 
while,  of  course,  their  artistic  merits  cannot  be  for  a  moment 
compared.  The  Luxembourg  at  Paris  was  built  on  the 
model  of  the  Pitti.  Statues  of  Medicean  dukes  await  you 
on  the  staircase  leading  to  the  Uffizi,  and  seem  to  bow 
you  in  with  gracious  dignity  to  inspect  the  treasures  of 
which  they  still  consider  themselves  the  proprietors.  All 
Florence  speaks  of  the  Medici.  Cosmo,  the  founder  of 
the  house,  sits  in  quiet  ease  in  the  Piazza  della  Signoria, 
and  from  the  palazzo,  which  we  have  just  visited,  a  short 
walk  conducts  us  to  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo,  contain- 
ing the  tombs  of  that  family,  and  among  them  the 
celebrated  monuments,  by  Michael  Angelo,  to  Cosmo, 
the  nephew  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and  Lorenzo  the 
son  of  Cosmo  and  the  father  of  Catherine  dei  Medici. 
Dawn  and  Twilight  are  at  the  feet  of  Cosmo  ;  Night  and 
Day  at  the  feet  of  Lorenzo.  Dawn  and  Night  are  female 
figures.  Twilight  is  an  elderly  man,  and  Day  a  youth, 
going  forth  in  his  strength.  Night  lies  calmly,  as  if 
lapped  in  happy  dreams ;  but  the  sad  face  of  Dawn,  with 
its  look  of  weary  enquiry,  is  strikingly  pathetic, 

Rogers  gives  well  the  impression  made  by  the  Dnke 
Lorenzo — 

"  Nor  yet  forget  that  chamber  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  gigantic  shapes  of  Night  and  Day, 


'  II 


r 


66 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


RELIGION    IN    FLORENCE. 


67 


Turned  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly, 

Yet  still  are  breathing,  and  shed  round  at  noon 

A  twofold  influence,  only  to  be  felt : 

A  light,  a  darkness,  blending  each  with  each, 

Both,  and  yet  neither.     There,  from  age  to  age. 

Two  ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 

Ihat  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.     Mark  him  well. 

He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 

What  from  beneath  his  helm -like  bonnet  scowls  ? 

Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull  ? 

'Tis  lost  in  shade,  yet,  like  the  basilisk, 

It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable." 


^» 


CHAPTER  X. 


RELIGION    IN    FLORENCE. 


**  The  cause    for  which   I   lay   down   my  life   shall   gloriously 
triumph."— /(>^n  Bedford. 

The  city  of  Savonarola  hears  the  glorious  gospel  of  the 
grace  of  God,  and  is  not  altogether  indifferent  to  it. 
Italy  has  never  had  a  Luther.  Savonarola  was  too  simply 
a  negative  reformer ;  a  "  protester "  against  error,  but 
scarcely  a  ''  witness  "  to  the  truth.  The  influence  of  such 
men  is  necessarily  transitory.  Negations  neither  satisfy 
the  heart  nor  convert  the  soul.  They  have  their  indis- 
pensable work  of  opposing  and  condemning  sin  and  error, 
but  unless  God's  remedy  for  both  is  proclaimed  and 
received  the  house  is  only  emptied  in  preparation  for  the 
return  of  evil  in  sevenfold  force.  Our  Lord's  charge  to 
every  reformer  and  missionary  is  this — "  Preach  the 
Gospel  to  every  creature."  The  Gospel  is  preached  in 
Florence.  Li  the  Via  Vittorio  Emmanuele,  a  long,  white, 
desolate-looking  street,  I  found  a  pretty  numerous 
assemblage  of  Italian  Protestants  and  enquirers,  who 
were  addressed  by  Magrini  from  the  words,  "  This  is  life 
eternal,  that  they  might  know  Thee,  the  only  true  God, 
and  Jesus  Christ  whom   Thou  hast  sent."     Tlie  hymns 

f2 


68 


RELIGION    IN    FLORENCE. 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


69 


sung  by  tins  and  the  other  native  congregations  are  very- 
sweet,  and  full  of  the  mingled  pathos  and  exultation 
which  belong  to  evangelical  truth. 

When  I  was  in  Florence,  De  Sanctis  was  preaching  to 
a  large  congregation  in  a  hall  situated  in  a  long  street 
leading  from  the  Lungiirno.  I  heard  him  there  one  Sunday- 
evening,  and  was  delighted  with  the  depth  of  loving 
thought  which  he  manifested,  while  he  showed  the  falsity 
of  that  too  common  mistake,  that  the  sacrifice  of  Jesus 
propitiated  the  Father's  heart  towards  us.  A  propitiatory 
sacrifice  was  necessary,  and  God's  love  provided  it  in  the 
willing  Victim  of  the  cross. 

"  He  beheld  the  world  undone, — 
Loved  the  world,  and  gave  His  Son." 

Such  is  the  teaching  of  Scripture,  and  it  is  to  be  deplored 
that  so  many  noble  hearts  should  be  repelled  from  the 
precious  doctrine  of  the  atonement  by  the  misplacing  of 
different  though  connected  truths,  as  though  it  had  been 
said  that  God  gave  His  Son  for  the  world,  and  therefore 
loved  it — a  self-evident  absurdity.  The  great  fact  for  the 
attention  of  the  sinner  is  just  tlds^  that  God  loves  him. 

The  English  clergymen  at  Florence  were  both  faithful 
proclaimers  of  the  good  news  of  salvation.  The  Church 
of  the  Embassy  was  in  a  palazzo  in  the  Lungarno.  The 
vestibule  contained  some  most  interesting  tablets,  seemingly 
from  the  catacombs  at  Rome.  The  other  English  church 
is  at  the  opposite  extremity  of  far-stretching  Florence, 
from  the  quarter  where  the  Italian  Protestants  assemble, 


( 

1 


being  in  the  Via  del  Maglio,  not  far  from  the  San  Marco 
of  Savonarola.  The  services  of  this  sanctuary  were  spiritual 
and  deeply  earnest,  and  the  sweet  English  hymns  rose 
with  a  true  home-like  melody.  The  beloved  and  esteemed 
pastor  (the  Eev.  F.  S.  H.  Pendleton)  and  his  wife,  with 
whom  I  enjoyed  short  but  most  delightful  intercourse,  are 
evidently  faithful  witnesses  to  the  truth  amidst  surrounding 
error  and  consequent  ungodliness.  An  English  lady  near 
by  concerns  herself  much  with  the  spiritual  interests  of 
the  Italians.  It  was  most  cheering  to  find  these  country- 
men and  countrywomen  of  ours  thus  centres  of  blessing  to 
all  around.  While  England  is  so  mournfully  silencing 
her  witness  at  home,  her  testimony  has  not  ceased  abroad. 
Verily  this  is  a  "  token  for  good." 

I  regretted  much  that  the  indisposition  of  the  Presby- 
terian minister.  Rev.  Mac  Dougal,  prevented  my  seeing 
him.  I  had  been  furnished  with  an  introduction,  which 
was  unavailing  on  that  account. 

Florence,  it  will  be  seen,  is  well  off  as  concerns  the 
proclamation  of  the  Heavenly  message.  The  sufferings 
of  the  Madiai,  by  the  attention  they  drew,  and  the  efforts 
which  followed  to  counteract  the  tyranny  of  Romanism, 
doubtless  went  far  towards  securing  the  liberty  now 
enjoyed.  The  great  enemy  of  the  Italians,  at  the  present 
time,  is  their  own  indifference.  They  have  been  so  long 
'•''  wearied  with  lies,"  that  too  often,  with  Pilate,  they  ask 
''  What  is  truth  ? "  and  go  away  despairing  of  an  answer. 

God  grant  that  more  and  more,  like  that  Italian  to 
whom   Peter  proclaimed  the  great  facts  about  Jesus  of 


70 


FLORENCE    TO    LIVORNO    AND    CAPRERA, 


71 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


Nazareth,  whereby  he  and  his  house  might  be  saved,  may 
joyfully  receive  the  message  !  The  keys  of  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  the  truths  of  the  everlasting  gospel,  are  the 
only  keys  which  can  unlock  the  still  thrice-barred  gates 
of  Italy's  political  and  spiritual  servitude. 


i 


f; 


CHAPTER    XL 

FROM  FLORENCE  TO  LIVORNO,  AND  FROM  LIVORNO 

TO  CAPRERA. 

"  Thou  canst  guard  Thy  creatures  sleeping, 
Heal  the  heart  long  broke  with  weeping. 
God  of  stillness  and  of  motion, 
Of  the  desert  and  the  ocean — 
Of  the  mountain,  rock,  and  river — 
Blessed  be  Thy  Name  for  ever !  ''—James  Hogg. 

At  length  I  was  able  to  set  out  for  Caprera,  and  for  that 
purpose  was  obliged  to  return  to  Pisa  to  take  the  train 
from  thence  to  Livorno.  Having  a  message  from  a  friend 
in  England  to  deliver  to  a  lady  residing  in  the  former 
city,  I  was  unable  to  visit  the  Duomo  and  the  Campo 
Santo.  These  were  great  omissions ;  nevertheless,  I  have 
carried  away  a  very  clear  remembrance  of  Pisa  in  her 
deserted  grandeur.  She  is  grand  because  of  her  past 
power,  and  because  of  the  very  sadness  of  her  present 
gloomy  quietude.  But  no  scene  in  Italy  conveyed  to  me 
so  melancholy  an  impression.  I  do  not  except  Rome, 
because  the  colouring  of  that  ever-chief  of  Italian  cities 
is  more  vivid,  and  the  sensations  she  arouses  in  every  way 
more  definite.  Pisa  is  silent,  grey,  desolate,  and  ghostly. 
Somewhere  between  Pisa  and  Florence  is,  or  was,  the 
Torre  di  Fame  of  Ugolino. 

The   road   between    Pisa   and    Livorno  consists,  as  it 


2 


ITALV  AND  HER  CAPITAL. 


FLORENCE  tO  LIVORNO  AND  CAPRERA. 


73 


approaches  the  latter,  of  wide  level  fields  of  tobacco  and 
maize,  allowing  nninterrupted  views  of  the  golden  sunset 
in  which  they  were  bathed  as  I  reached  Livorno,  Octo.ber 
20th.  In  the  central  square  are  statues  to  two  dukes  of 
Savoy,  one  of  whom  is  so  hideously  ugly,  that  it  is  to  be 
hoped  his  face  was  not  a  faithful  mirror  to  his  mind. 
This,  however,  it  most  probably  was ;  and  as  the  ugliness 
lies  not  only  in  the  rough,  coarse  features,  one  does  not 
envy  his  subjects.  My  most  vivid  remembrance  of 
Livorno  is  connected  with  its  courteous  station-master, 
Suatori,  who  told  me,  I  believe,  that  he  had  been  some 
years  in  France,  and  who  certainly  resembled  a  Frenchman 
of  the  old  school  rather  than  an  Italian,  in  spite  of  his 
name,  and  of  the  honourable  fact  that  he  had  been  some 
years  in  prison  for  his  devotion  to  the  Italian  cause.  No 
want  of  recognition  of  Italian  chivalry  is  implied  here, 
for  of  that  no  one  can  be  more  sensible  than  myself;  but 
Suatori's  was  something  not  greater,  but  different.  Filled, 
I  suppose,  with  the  thought  of  the  expedition  on  which  I 
was  at  lepgth  starting,  and  hurried  along  by  the  decidedly 
uncourteous  officials  of  Pisa,  I  had  omitted  to  take  up  at 
that  station  the  silver  coins  given  me  in  change,  a  not 
very  serious  loss,  but  one  which  at  the  time  was  likely  to 
cause  me  some  inconvenience.  Suatori  interested  himself 
most  vividly  in  the  matter,  telegraphed  to  Pisa,  and 
expressed  the  sincerest  regret  when  his  message,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  absence  of  the  guard  in  question,  met 
with  no  favourable  reply.  I  shall  always  retain  a  grateful 
recollection  of  his  kindness,  as  probably  he  would  quickly 


m 


1 


recognize,  were  we  to  meet  again,  the  adventurous  English 
lady  to  whom  he  showed  such  courteous  attention. 

It  was  now  full  moon,  and  the  cold  clear  light  illumi- 
nated the  long  road  from  the  railway  terminus  to  the 
harbour.  I  had  with  me  a  few  tracts,  and  one  little  book 
containing  a  portion  of  Scripture  in  Italian.  The  boy  who 
rowed  me  to  the  steamer  begged  so  hard  for  this  last,  that 
I  gave  it  to  him.  The  name  of  the  vessel  was  the 
"  Umbria."  Sardinian  soldiers  were  the  most  numerous 
of  the  passengers.  I  remained  all  night  on  deck,  and  my 
memory  preserves  some  ineffaceable  pictures  of  the  seamen 
walking  the  ship,  wearing  the  caj^es  of  their  cloaks  over 
their  heads,  as  stiff-peaked  hoods,  reminding  one  of  the 
cowls  of  the  inquisitors,  or  of  Dante's  hypocrites  pacing 
on  beneath  their  gold-covered  mantles  of  lead ;  pictures, 
also,  of  the  half-savage  Sardinian  soldiers  (the  Croats  of 
Italy),  lying  as  shapeless  masses  wrapped  in  their  grey 
coats.  To  these  visual  objects  the  vocal  accompaniment 
would  be  occasionally — as  some  Sardinian  leaned  lazily 
over  the  vessel's  side — the  wild  chant  of  that  race,  called 
the  "durrah  durrah," — hummed  drowsily  in  a  monotonous, 
never-ending  whirr,  somewhat  resembling  the  drone  of  a 
bag-pipe.  To  this  '^  durrah  durrah,"  they  are  accustomed 
to  dance  their  national  dance,  standing  in  a  circle  of  men 
and  women  alternately,  beginning  slowly,  and  in  a  low 
tone,  and  gradually  increasing  in  pitch  and  in  velocity, 
until  at  length  they  have  worked  themselves  into  a  state 
of  frenzy,  and  are  ready  for  anything.  Suatori,  to  whom 
I  was  mentioning  this  barbaric  chant,  when  again  passing 


I'll 


74 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


through  Livomo  on  my  way  back  to  Florence,  assured  me 
that  he  had  witnessed  Fetish  dances  in  Africa  (to  which 
the  dance  of  the  Sardinians  is  closely  akin),  at  the  close 
of  which  he  had  actually  seen  a  man  begin  to  devour  a 
live  animal,  a  sheep,  I  believe,*  so  beyond  all  ordinary 
human  instincts  and  sensations  had  he  been  brought  by 
the  unnatural  excitement.  May  not  the  first  stage  of  such 
a  physical  effect  be  found  in  the  at  last  involuntary  rapidity 
of  motion  in  table-turning?  I  believe  it  may.  But  the 
animal  natures  of  these  rough  soldiers  did  not  despise 
sleep ;  so  very  soon  the  snatches  of  wild  and  certainly  not 
melodious  song  were  over,  and  all  was  still  beneath  the 
moon,  whose  light  is  itself  visible  silence.  It  shone  full  on 
the  sea,  making  a  broad  bright  river  through  the  night- 
dyed  waters. 

"  Thou  AMio  slumberest  not  nor  sleepest, 
Blest  are  they  Thou  kindly  keepest ! 
God  of  evening's  parting  ray, 
Of  midnight  gloom,  and  dawning  day, 
That  riseth  from  the  azure  sea, 
Like  breathings  of  eternity." — Hogg. 

So  rose  the  morning  of  the  Sabbath  on  the  Mediter- 
ranean. Had  there  been  any  choice,  I  would  not  have 
taken  that  day  for  journeying.  There  was  none,  however, 
and  my  mission  to  Garibaldi  must  have  remained  unac- 
complished had  I  refused  to  make  this  single  exception  to 
my  general  law.  But  how  best  to  spend  it  as  God's  day  ? 
Seeking   His   blessing,  I   determined   to   try  if   I  could 

*  Without  the  wool,  /  suppose. 


i| 


I 


FLORENCE    TO    LIVORNO    AND    CAPRERA. 


70 


interest  some  of  the  Sardinian  soldiers  by  reading  to  them 
some  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  in  Italian.  I  suc- 
ceeded, to  my  own  astonishment.  The  remarks  of  one  of 
the  more  intelligent  surprised  me,  till  he  told  me  that  he 
had  a  Bible,  and  studied  it.  I  learned  afterwards  that  a 
most  interesting  and  encouraging  mission  is  carried  on  in 
Sardinia.  At  the  end  of  the  reading,  I  presented  a  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress"  (having  more  than  one  with  me)  to  the 
before-mentioned  soldier,  and  a  comrade  of  his,  for  their 
joint  use,  and  was  amused  at  their  perplexity  as  to  how 
they  should  manage,  as  mountains  divided  their  homes, 
and  they  did  not  see  each  other  very  often.  To  the  best  of 
my  recollection,  I  settled  the  matter  by  suggesting  that 
they  each  should  keep  the  book  for  half  a  year  alternately, 
and  that  they  should  pay  each  other,  if  possible,  more 
frequent  visits,  in  order  to  read  it  together. 

The  island  of  Elba  was  visible  for  some  hours  during 
the  early  part  of  this  day.  The  "  Umbria  "  touched  at  Bastia 
(in  Corsica)  to  deposit  some  of  the  inhabitants  who  were 
returning  from  Livorno,  and  till  evening  approached  we 
skirted  the  mountainous  coast  of  that  island.  At  length, 
after  the  moon  had  again  risen,  we  passed  one  and  another 
of  the  small  islands  standing  as  heralds  to  Caprera,  and 
beneath  her  fullest  rays  stopped  at  La  ^Maddalena.  Here 
I  landed  at  the  same  time  with  a  Garibaldian  volunteer, 
who  kindly  introduced  me  to  Signor  Ricciotti  Garibaldi, 
who  vras  standing  on  the  shore.  The  Locanda  at  La 
Maddalena  was  full,  so  I  passed  the  night  at  a  neighbour- 
ing cottage,  in  a  lofty  room,  hung  round  with  quaint  prints. 


76 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAI'ITAL. 


The  dialect  spoken  in  this  isLand  is  very  rough,  and  I 
found  some  difficulty  in  understanding  and  in  being  under- 
stood. I  was  to  have  crossed  to  Caprera  the  next  morning 
in  a  boat  with  Signor  Kicciotti  and  Signor  Canzio  and  his 
wife,  Garibaldi's  daughter  Teresa;  but  owing  to  some 
mistake  I  did  not  know  the  exact  time  of  their  departure, 
and  therefore  took  a  small  boat,  and  was  rowed  over  by 
the  son  of  the  mistress  of  the  Locanda.  He  pointed  out 
to  me  the  yacht  "  Princess,"  lying  off  the  side  of  Caprera. 
I  thouglit  of  the  great  interest  I,  with  numberless  others, 
had  felt  in  this  small  expression  of  affection  which  Gari- 
baldi kindly  accepted  as  the  gift  principally  of  the  working 
people  of  England.  At  length  the  boat  was  brought 
alongside  of  a  huge  stone,  lying  by  several  others  of  equal 
size.  My  conductor  assisted  me  to  leap  on  to  it,  to  gain, 
as  I  supposed,  some  particular  view,  for  I  had  no  idea  at 
the  moment  that  the  port  was  attained.  But  so  it  was. 
I  had  landed  at  Caprera. 


CAPRERA. 


a 


CHAPTER  Xn. 


CAPRERA. 

As  his  Rock  amid  the  ocean 

Stands  in  its  strength  sublime, 
'Mid  the  age's  wild  commotion 

Stands  the  hero  of  the  time. 
Now  back  in  his  island-dwelling, 

He  hears  in  his  soul  once  more 
How  the  mighty  waves  are  swelling 

Round  the  lone  and  solemn  shore. 
Lonely  and  sad  as  he  left  it, 

Swept  by  the  wild  winds  still. — E.  S.  G.  S. 

When  I  now  write,  Garibaldi  has  been  arrested  by  order 
of  the  Italian  Government  under  Rattazzi,  and,  after  a 
short  imprisonment,  has  returned  to  his  own  typical  island- 
home.  He  was  arrested  at  Asinalunga,  near  Siena,  on 
his  way  to  help  the  Romans  to  free  themselves  from  the 
living  death  of  oppression — the  plea  for  the  arrest  of  this 
Italian  citizen  and  truest  patriot  being  a  convention  which 
he  had  never  recognised,  but  into  which  men  unworthy  of 
the  name  of  Italians  had  entered  with  a  foreigner,  and 
that  foreigner  the  representative  of  diplomatic  selfishness 
— Napoleon  III.  of  France. 

O  Rome !  wert  thou  any  other  city  but  what  thou  art, 
Italy  had  had  thee  and  been  free  and  united  long  ago — 
wert  thou  any  other  but  the  seat  of  "  the  apostasy,"  the 


II 


Ml 


78 


CAPRERA. 


79 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


"  mystery  of  iniquity."  Happily  it  is  but  so.  Thou  art  not 
the  Woman  herself,  "drunken  with  the  blood  of  the  saints," 
who  has  made  thy  seven  hills  her  throne.  But  that  evil 
system  must  be  dispossessed,  and  yet  more,  error  must  be 
replaced  by  truth  ere  thou  wilt  be  free.  I  had  seen 
Garibaldi  at  the  time  of  his  memorable  visit  to  London  in 
18G4.     At  his  entry,  when 

The  enthusiasm  of  England  burst  forth, 
As  when  from  thousand  subterranean  caves 
God's  hand  drew  back  the  bolts,  and,  lo  !  at  once 
The  fountains  of  the  deep  were  broken  up.  * 

At  the  Crystal  Palace,  when  he  met  his  countrymen, 
and  on  that  day  when  he  met  the  gathered  crowds  of  the 
working  men  of  England,  and  at  Guildhall.  On  all  these 
occasions,  and  especially  on  the  last,  we 

Read  his  history  in  that  face, 

Calm  with  unearthly  calm,  and  yet  whereon 

The  shadow  of  a  mighty  sadness  lay, 

Through  which  the  slow,  sweet  smile,  like  sunlight,  breathed, 

Speaking  of  hopes  deferred,  yet  undestroyed.  *— E.  S.  G.  S. 

Hopes  now  deferred  again.  But  destroyed  ?  No;  never  that. 
I  bore  with  me  in  this  journey  an  introduction  to  the 
general  from  a  friend  in  England.  The  boat  with  Signor 
Ricciotti  and  his  sister  had  not  arrived  when  that  in  which 
I  came  reached  the  shore.  After  stepping  from  one  to 
another  of  the  large  stones  which  form  the  landing-ground, 
the  boy  who  had   rowed  me  directed  me  up  a  winding 

*  These  lines  appeared  in  Pawsey's  Ladies'  Pocket-book  for  1865, 
published  by  Haddock,  late  Pawsey,  Ancient  House.  Ipswich. 


'  \ 


/ 


ascent,  amid  large  blocks  of  granite,  intermixed  with  aro- 
matic shrubs,  such  as  tamarisks  and  wild  myrtle,  to  the 
long,  low,  white  house,  familiar  to  my  eye  as  the  face  of  an 
old  friend,  from  its  many  faithful  portraits,  but  which  I 
had  scarcely  thought  I  should  ever  be  privileged  to  visit. 
I  entered  the  threshold,  and  gave  my  card  of  introduction 
to  one  of  the  soldier-like  forms  standing  around  variously 
occupied,  which  card  he  carried  out.  At  length,  walking 
slowly,  still  leaning  on  his  stick  (he  was  then  suffering 
afresh  from  the  Aspromonte  wound,  which  had  been  re- 
opened during  the  campaign  in  the  Tyrol,  by  the  accidental 
tread  of  one  of  his  own  soldiers,  whom  he  did  not  let  know 
what  he  had  done),  Garibaldi  came  in  from  the  garden. 
*'  E  il  generate,"  said  all  voices — quite  needlessly  so  far  as 
I  was  concerned,  for  had  I  never  seen  him  before,  I  should 
have  required  no  information  as  to  who  stood  before  me. 
That  fatherly  kindness,  that  dignity,  at  once  tender  and 
martial,  could  belong  to  no  other.  I  was  too  much  moved 
to  speak,  for  I  knew  this  was  a  moment  whose  memory 
would  brighten  many  an  after  hour  of  sorrow.  With  the 
considerate  courtesy  of  the  perfect  gentleman,  Garibaldi 
held  out  his  hand  and  took  mine  with  a  manner  calculated 
to  banish  all  embarrassment.  "  Venga  nella  mia  stanza,"  * 
he  said,  and  I  follow^ed  him  thither. 

My  chief  object  in  thus  visiting  Caprera,  was  to  put  into 
his  hand  "  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  (that  first  book  in  the 
world  after  the  Bible)  in  Italian.  The  translation  into  that 
tongue  has  been  most  ably  made  by  an  American,  and  the 

*  '•  Come  into  my  room." 


80 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


CAPRERA. 


81 


Italian  language,  at  once  simple  and  sonorous,  clothes 
grandly  the  true  imaginings  of  the  poet-dreamer.  As 
might  be  expected,  they  do  not  well  adapt  themselves  to 
French,  nor  French  to  them.  I  have  never  met  Tvith  a 
German  translation,  but  that  language  ought  to  be  a  con- 
o^enial  medium.  Garibaldi  received  the  book  in  his  own 
kind,  courteous  way.  "  La  ringrazio,"  he  said,  taking  it, 
and  examining  the  title.  I  ask  all  Christians,  whose  eyes 
may  rest  on  these  pages,  to  send  up  a  prayer  for  a  blessing 
on  that  clear  enunciation  of  Scrii)ture-truth  to  the  heart 

of  Italv's  hero. 

I  then  inquired  the  fate  of  another  volume  which  I  had 
forwarded  to  Caprera  in  18G4.  He  rose,  and  searched 
among  the  companions  of  his  solitude  arranged  on  the 
shelf.  But  it  could  not  be  found.  I  shall  refer  to  this 
presently.  "  I  offer  you,"  said  Garibaldi,  "  una  povera  ospi- 
talita."  These  are  his  words,  not  inine.  As  though  any- 
thing could  be  poor  from  him  !  Would  that  those  blinded 
by  the  "pride  of  life"  remembered  that  it  is  from  whom 
it  comes  which  gives  value  or  worthlessness  to  every 
offering !  The  truly  rich  man  is  not  he  who  has  many 
ba^s  in  his  treasurv,  but  he  whose  own  character  imparts 
value  to  a  cup  of  cold  water  from  his  hand. 

I  accepted  the  offer  as  freely  as  it  was  made,  until  the 
steam-boat  returned  from  La  INLaddalena  to  Livorno, 
which  was  on  the  following  afternoon.  I,  however,  declared 
that  a  chair  would  accommodate  me  sufficiently  for  the 
night;  but  Garibaldi  smiled,  and  told  me  that  his  eldest 
son  being  away,  his  room  was  at  my  service.    "  Then,"  he 


\ 


said,  "  we  shall  dine."    Noon  is  his  ordinary  dinner-hour. 
I  was  conducted  by  one  of  the  afore-named  soldiers  out  of 
harness  to  the  door  of  the  room  above  mentioned,  where 
I  found  portraits  of  one  or  two  of  Garibaldi's  fellow-com- 
batants, all  of  whom,  I  believe,  had  fallen  in  battle.  War- 
like implements   also  adorned   the   walls.      I  had  some 
difficulty  in  finding  my  way  to  the  dining-room,  since  the 
house  is  rather  peculiarly  constructed,  and  I  had  to  pass 
through  the  kitchen  on  my  road.     Probably  this  is  caused 
by  part  of  the  house  having  been  annexed  as  a  somewhat 
recent  addition.  The  dining-room  is  large  and  long,  uncar- 
peted  (at  least,  it  was  so  at  that  time),  and  its  walls  without 
paint  or  paper.     But  they  were  ornamented  with  some 
fine  photographic  landscapes,  and  over  the  fire-place  hung 
a  beautiful  water-coloured  painting,  representing,  I  fancy, 
some  part  of  the  neighbourhood  of  Garibaldi's  native  Nice. 
I  found  assembled  Garibaldi  himself,  Signor  Albanese,  a 
surgeon,  who  bore  some  honourable  part  in  relation  to  the 
extraction  of  the  memorable  bullet  of  Aspromonte,  and 
his  wife,  who  occupied  the  head  of  the  table.  Garibaldi 
himself  being  seated  on  her  left  hand,  a  place  being  left 
for  me  opposite  him,   on  the   signora's   right.       Signor 
Ricciotti  was  my  neighbour,  and  opposite  to  him  sat  his 
sister  Teresa,  her  husband,   Signor  Canzio,  at  her  side. 
Garibaldi's    beloved    Teresa,    or   Teresita,    is   of  middle 
height,  robust  and  rounded  in  form,  a  Spartan  in  vigour, 
though  with  all  womanly  gentleness.     Her  hair  and  eyes 
are  dark— the  latter  kind  and  true.     She  was  dressed  in 
the  Italian  colours,  and  is  evidently  in  character  and  spirit 


82 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


a  worthy  daughter  of  her  father.  It  may  be  remarked, 
en  passant,  that  she  is  certainly  not  the  original  of  Piero 
Magni's  reading-girl. 

The  repast  was  plain  but  plentiful,  including  Indian 
com  and  Indian  figs,  of  which  Garibaldi  has  now  a  good 
supply  from  the  rugged  soil  of  his  island.  I  had  never 
before  tasted  Indian  figs,  which  are  pleasant  and  refresh- 
ing, of  a  golden  colour,  with  black  seeds ;  probably,  however, 
too  well  known  to  need  description. 

There  were  also  scallops  (they  called  them  a  sort  of 
oyster,  but  they  were  evidently  scallops),  and  some  of  a 
singular  looking  shell-fish,  called  in  Italian  ^'  ricci,"  and 
in  English,  I  think,  sea  urchins,  of  which  Garibaldi 
seemed  especially  fond.  He  expressed  his  wonder  that 
to  any  one  "i  frutti  del  mar"  should  be  distasteful.  1 
received  one  scallop  from  his  own  hand,  and  I  can 
certainly  say  that,  so  received,  nothing  ever  tasted  to  me 
so  delicious.  After  dinner.  Garibaldi  retired  immediately 
to  his  own  room,  and  the  rest  of  us  dispersed.  Teresa  and 
her  husband,  Signor  Ricciotti,  and  Signor  and  Signora 
Albanese,  with  their  son,  a  boy  of  about  eleven,  com- 
menced a  game  of  mimic  war,  not  exactly  of  attack  and 
defence,  but  of  taking  prisoners  and  avoiding  capture. 
They  kindly  asked  me  to  join  them,  to  which  I  agreed, 
although  it  happened  to  be  to  me  a  penance  of  no  ordinary 
kind,  since,  having  needed  new  boots  at  Florence,  I  had 
been  obliged  to  provide  myself  with  a  pair  of  Italian  ones, 
which  to  English  feet  are  anything  but  agreeable,  no 
foreigners  being  equally  addicted  with  ourselves  to   the 


CAPRERA. 


83 


peripatetic  philosophy.     The  great  misery  consists  in  heels 
as  of  iron,  without  the   least   elasticity.     The  fact  was 
(althougli  I  trust  it  then  remained  a  hidden  one)  that  I 
had  been  compelled  to  leave  my  hose  with  the  owner  of 
my  apartment  of  the  former  night  at  La  Maddalena,  and 
was  now  wearing  these  unfortunate  boots  on  my  bare  feet. 
The  reader  will,  therefore,  not  wonder  that  I  had  often 
ignominiously  to   yield  myself  prisoner.     But  Teresita! 
She  sped  hither  and  thither  like  a  young  fawn,  and  I 
lieard  the  remark,  "  She  captured  ?     No,  never."     I  was 
amused,  but  not  surprised,  at  the  wondering  way  in  which 
her  kind  gazelle-like  eyes  dwelt  on  me.     Yes,  dear  child 
of  Italy,   we  are  in  physique  and,  of  course,  in  mental 
history,  widely  different.    Yet  have  we  common  sympathies, 
'*  touches  of  nature  "  which  "  make  us  kin."     She  has 
four  children  (now  five,  one  having  been  born  since  that 
time,  and  named  John  Brown),  whom  I  saw ;  the  three 
eldest,  boys,  of  whom  the  third  bears  the  honoured  name 
of  Lincoln— a  permanent  token  of  Garibaldi's  recognition 
of  the  great  American— while  the  baby  girl  has  as  her 
rich  heritage  the  sacred  name  of  Anita.     It  was,  indeed, 
a  privilege  to  kiss  these  little  ones. 

Teresa  is  fond  of  music,  and  has  a  sweet,  powerful 
voice.  We  all  retired  early.  The  round  moon  filled  the 
chamber  of  Menotti  with  her  light,  and  as  I  sat  by  the 
window  in  a  wheeled  chair,  which  had  probably  given  rest 
from  the  wound  of  Aspromonte,  my  heart  swelled  with 
thankfulness  to  Him  Who  in  a  world  of  sorrow  does  yet 
permit  such  wonderful  and  pure  enjoyment,  *'  as  we  are 

G  2 


81 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


able  to  bear  it."  I  had,  however,  a  desire  yet  unfulfilled. 
That  book  which  I  had  sent  in  18G4  was  one  of  no 
ordinary  importance,  and  bore  on  the  events  of  the  present 
time.*  I  felt  it  was  one  which  Garibaldi  ought  to  read,  his 
perfect  acquaintance  with  English  as  a  written  language 
preventing  all  difficulty  on  that  score.  I  could  not  think 
it  had  missed  its  destination.  But  how  to  bring  it  to 
light,  and  into  Garibaldi's  possession?  I  found  that 
Signor  Ricciotti  was  the  referee  on  all  English  questions, 
on  account  of  his  education  in  our  country,  and  that  all 
books  in  English  sent  to  Garibaldi  passed  through  his 
hands.  The  next  morning  I  prayed  to  Him  Who  bids  us 
make  our  requests  known  unto  Him  "  in  everything,"  and 
then  made  my  request  to  Signor  Ricciotti  that  he  would 
kindly  search  for  the  book.  And  I  now  again  thank  him 
for  his  kindness  in  acceding  to  my  wish.  He  left  the 
room,  and,  after  an  absence  of  about  twenty  minutes, 
returned,  bearing  the  desired  volume.  Truly  then  did  I 
praise  God  "  with  my  whole  heart." 

I  went  out  with  the  book  to  refresh  my  own  memory 
with  some  of  its  contents  while  seated  on  one  of  the  granite 
blocks  of  the  island's  stony  wilderness,  overlooking  the 
sea.  Garibaldi's  favourite  old  hound.  Bice,  constituted 
herself  my  guard,  accompanying  me  to  my  resting-place, 
and  seating  herself  near  to  me,  coming  from  time  to  time  to 
receive  a  caress,  and  returning  to  her  post  when  satisfied. 

*  *'  The  Midnight  Cry,"  by  Rev.  Samuel  Garratt,  M.A.  The 
portion  of  this  book  relating  to  History  and  to  Prophecy  has  since 
been  enlarged  and  rc-published  under  the  title  of  "  A  Commentary 
on  the  bwk  of  Revelation,"  by  the  same  Author.     Secley  and  Co. 


\ 


CAPRERA. 


85 


At  dinner  that  day  Garibaldi  spoke  of  his  wish  to 
dispose  of  some  of  the  valuable  grey  granite  with  which 
the  island  abounds.  He  alluded  to  the  result  of  his 
attempt  to  sell,  at  Genoa,  some  of  the  odoriferous  and 
resinous  wood  of  which  the  aromatic  shrubs  growing  amid 
the  island  stones  are  composed.  The  Genoese  not  only 
rejected  this  wood,  which,  from  its  resinous  nature,  would 
have  been  invaluable  as  firewood,  but,  because  it  was  not 
cut  evenly  and  made  into  bundles,  cast  it  into  the  sea. 

The  transit  of  granite  from  Caprera  to  England  would 
be  expensive,  unless  a  devoted  captain  could  be  found  to 
give  it  free  passage.     All  granite  is  not  Caprera  granite, 
as  surely  some  English  hearts  would  feel.     And  in  this 
world  of  graves  there  is  a  sure  and  constant  demand  for 
granite,  if  only  for   tombstones.     I  left  the  island  that 
afternoon,    being   rowed,    with    Signor    Ricciotti,    to   the 
steamer,  in  the  boat  in  w^hich  he  went  to  fetch  the  postal 
packet  from  "  La  Maddalena."     Before  leaving,  I  walked 
round  to  the  ground  at  the  side  of  the  house  where  Gari- 
baldi stood,  with  the  long-missing  volume  in  my  hand. 
*■  E  trovato,'  I  said,  '  lo  leggera  ?  '  "  Lo  leggerb,"*  answered 
the  voice  that  never  uttered  a  promise  afterwards  falsified. 
"  Mettetelo  nella  mia  stanza,"f  he  said  to  his  attendants, 
and  with  kind  smiles  from  them,    and  a    "  Faccia  buon 
viaggio,"  and  a  shake  of  the  hand  from  Garibaldi,  I  left 
him  with  warm  expressions  of  gratitude  for  his  kindness, 
probably  never  again  to  see  him  in  this  world,  but  to  be 
cheered  during  my  future  path  by  the  remembrance  of 

*  "  It  is  found.    You  will  read  it  ? "     "I  will  read  it." 
f  "  Put  it  in  my  room." 


/ 


86 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


having  been  for  one  day  the  guest  of  the  first  gentleman  of 
his  age,— a  knight,  indeed,  "without  fear"  and  "without 
reproach"  from  man.     If  any  one  wishes  to  know  in  what 
true  dignity  consists,  he  may  see  it  personified  in  Gari- 
baldi, and  may  at  the  same  time  learn  the  secret  which 
makes  him  the  perfect  gentleman  that  he  is— viz.,  that  he 
"looks  not  on  his  own  things"  only,  but  rather  "  on  the 
things  of  others."     Being  "  pitiful,"   he  is,  of  necessity, 
"courteous."      The    White    House   being   on   somewhat 
rising  ground,  there  is  a  slight  descent  to  the  shore.     I 
walked  quickly  down  with  Signor  Ricciotti,  gathering  a 
few  sprigs  of  wild  myrtle,  &c.,  as  memorials  of  my  visit. 
It  began  to  rain  heavily  in  the  impetuous  Italian  style, 
and  the  shower  had  become  a  torrent  when  I  left  the  boat 
for  the  steam-packet.     Many  mingled  feelings  made  my 
own  mind  stormy,  so  the  weather  and  I  were  in  harmony, 
and  the  mists  through  which  Caprera  was  visible,  till  lost 
in  distance,  suited  well  its  grey,  desolate  sublimity.     The 
dark,  solemn  mountains  of  Sardinia  loomed  grandly  forth ; 
and  the  colouring  of  the  scene  made,  as  it  were,  a  third 
compartment  to  its  picture  in  my  mind,  as  I  had  seen  it 
before  in  the  spiritual  glory  of  moonlight,  and  then  in  the 
blue  and  gold  of  regal  day.     Now,  the  warring  elements 
spoke  of  trouble  and  strife,  and  bitter  tears ;  while  amid 
all  stood  the  rocks ^  grave  but  unshaken,  in  the  steadfast- 
ness of  truth.    I  invoked  upon  Caprera  and  its  habitant  the 
special  blessing  of  Him  "Whose  righteousness  standeth 
like  the  strong  mountains." 


1/ 


vl 


FROM  CAPRERA  BACK  TO  FLORENCE. 


87 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

FROM  CAPRERA  BACK  TO  FLORENCE. 

There  was  on  the  "  Umbria,"  as  she  retraced  her  way  to 
Livorno,  a  Corsican  returning  to  Bastia,  and  thence  to 
his  home  at   Ajaccio.     He   was   a  kind   and   courteous 
fellow-passenger,  and  as  I  preferred  remaining  all  night 
on  deck,  he  very  kindly  brought  me  in  the  early  morning 
some   refreshment,   which   was   not   unacceptable   in  the 
chilly   dawn,   although  I  was   enjoying  the  scene  in  its 
wildness  and  strangeness  far  too  thoroughly  to  be  preju- 
dicially affected  by  rain  or  by  cold.     This  Corsican  was  a 
fine  specimen  of  that  proverbially  fine   race,  presenting 
a  marked  contrast  to   the   half-savage   Sards   who    had 
been  my  companions  in  my  outward  passage.     I  gave  a 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  in  Italian,  to  the  captain  of  the 
"  Umbria,"  and  my  Corsican  friend  promised  that,  as  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  frequently  passing  and  re-passing  to  and 
from  La  Maddalena,  he  would   take  the  opportunity  of 
reading  it  sometimes.     I  believe  he  will  keep  his  word, 
for  he  was  evidently  '*  an  honourable  man."     He  told  me 
much  that  was  interesting  respecting  the  house  at  Ajaccio 
where  the  first  Napoleon  was  born,  and  which  has  been 
lately  restored,  but,  as  far  as  possible,  unchanged.     It  is 
singular  that  Napoleon  played  as  a  baby  on  a  hearth-rug 


88 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


representing  the  god  of  war,  so  that  the  Champ  de  Mars 
was  his  first  play-ground.  The  Corsican  spoke  of  that 
'^  vendetta "  which  has  rendered  his  island  so  darkly 
famous.  He  attributed  it  chiefly  to  the  imperfect  adminis- 
tration of  justice.     It  is  the  lynch  law  of  Corsica. 

The  Corsicans  are  evidently  a  race  resembling  the  High- 
binders of  Scotland  (in  the  finest  type  of  the  latter),  the 
Basques    of    Spain,    and    other   mountain    tribes;    bold, 
impetuous,  firm  as  friends,  and  terrible  as  foes,  like  moun- 
taineers everywhere,  but  wanting  in  that  introspection  and 
patient  thoughtfulness  which  contribute  to  the  earnestness 
and  the  endurance  of  the  men  of  the  plains.     Those  who 
live  amid  the  grandest  outward  scenes  are  always  in  some 
measure  transient  in  emotion  and  sensuous   in  intellect ; 
always  disposed  to   "look  on  things  after  the  outward 
appearance;"    while  those  who   have  fewer  beauties  of 
scenery  to  engage  their  vision,  are  brought  to  contemplate 
those  wonders  of  the  inward  world  which  far  exceed  in 
grandeur  and  in  loveliness  the  fairest  scenes  without ;  to 
turn  their  eyes  to  the  stars  which   seem  to  gaze   down 
lovingly  from  their  low-spreading  heavens,  and  to  yearn 
after  the  calm   fields    of   light  which  bound  their  wide 
horizon.     Having  less  around,  they  are  led  the  rather  to 
look  above.     The  Celtic  races,  still  chiefly  haunting  their 
ancestral  hills,  have  their  bards  of  war  and  of  traditional 
romance.     The  Gothic  races,  still  tenting  on  their  plains, 
produce  the  poets  of  the  heart,  of  life's  history,  and  of 
spiritual  joy.     Shakespeare  tells  the  tale  of  man  amid  the 
greenery  of  Warwickshire;    Cowper  sings  his  songs  of 


FROM  CAPRERA  BACK  TO  FLORENCE. 


89 


i 


} 


*'  sweet  sorrow"  by  the  slow-winding  Ouse ;   and  Bunyan 
dreams  of  Heaven  in  the  prison-cell,  and  in  the  quiet 
hedge-enclosed  meadows  of  Bedfordshire. 

Bastia  is  a  picturesque  town,  at  the  foot  and  on  the 
slope  of  dark-coloured  rocks,  by  the  sea,  the  small  white 
houses  of  modern  days  interspersed  amid  the  older  dwel- 
lings more  nearly  toned  by  time  to  the  hue  of  the  sur- 
rounding cliffs.  There  is  a  row  of  arches,  said  to  be  of 
Roman  origin,  called  Les  Terrasses,  which  my  Corsican 
friend  showed  me  through  a  telescope,  and  which  seemed 
part  of  an  interesting  ruin.  At  length  the  boat  stopped, 
and  I  took  leave  of  my  temporary  companion,  receiving 
fresh  kind  wishes  for  a  pleasant  voyage,  and,  at  length,  a 
safe  return  to  my  own  distant  island-home. 

Livorno  was  again  reached  at  about  five  in  the  afternoon, 
and,  as  soon  as  I- could,  after  obtaining  some  letters  from 
England  at  the  post-office,  and  partaking  of  some  neces- 
sary refreshment,  at  the  same  time  enjoying  some  more 
interesting  conversation  with  my  friend  Suatori,  I  took  the 
train  once  more,  via  Pisa,  to  Florence,  where  I  arrived  at 
night,   much  satisfied  with   my   expedition,    and   kindly 
greeted  at  the  Pension  in  the  Via  del  Sole.     Rome  was 
now  the  goal  of  my  projects ;  but  thoughts  of  Dante  and 
of  the  old  Goths,  making  me  desirous  of  seeing  Ravenna 
on  my  way,  I  determined  to  go  by  Ancona,  the  longest, 
but  yet  as  being,  by  uninterrupted  railway,  the  swiftest  and 
safest  route,  by  which  much  annoyance,  often  experienced 
at   Civita  Vecchia,   is   avoided,  and  all  fear  of  brigands 
prevented. 


90 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


I  could  not  start  before  the  Monday,  so  had  four  more 
days  to  linger  in  beautiful  Florence,  amid  her  numberless 
gems  of  art,  and  with  her  cathedral  casting  its  mighty 
shadow  on  my  steps.     That  cathedral,  and  the  structures 
telling  of  the  feudalism  of  the  Middle  Ages,  impart  a  grave 
dignity  to  Florence,  which  blends  in  the  features  and  in 
the  character  of  her  sons,  with  the  vivacity  of  their  social 
kindness  and  the  keenness  of  their  intellectual  life.     But, 
I  repeat,  Florence  neither  is  nor  can  be  the  capital  of  Italy. 
No  true  Florentine  would  desire  it.    The  very  gravity  and 
deptli  of  thought  to  which  I  have  alluded  makes  these 
Tuscans  cling  more  closely  to  the  mother-city,  owning  as 
their  parent  and  their  queen  that  Rome,  whose  name  is 
bound  up  with  every  memory  of  their  country's  glory. 
Italy's  capital  is  not  the  city  of  the  Medici,  but  the  city  of 
the  Caesars. 


RAVENNA. 


91 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

RAVENNA. 

"  The  dead  rule  the  world." 
I  LEFT  Florence  on  the  evening  of  Monday,  October  29, 
bound  for  Rome.     Although  Ravenna  is  anything  but  in 
the  direct  route,  yet,  wishing  to  visit  the  old   Gothic 
capital  first,  I  took  a  northerly  direction,  passing   the 
night  at  Bologna.     About  midnight  the  moon  rose  and 
filled  my  room  in  the  quiet  hotel,  casting  in  pale  jewels 
through  the  lattice-window.     I  started   early  the   next 
morning  ;  the  hotel  omnibus  taking  the  track  marked  out 
for  it  through  the  centre  of  the  streets  of  the  city,  which 
with  its  endless  cloister-like  arcades,  seems  a  vast  uni- 
versity.     At    Castel-Bolognese,    I   had  to    change    for 
Ravenna,  which  I  reached,  however,  early  in  the  day.     I 
went  to  the  Albergo  della  Stella  d'Oro,  which  I  found  had 
given   lodgment  to    some  celebrities — to  Garibaldi   and 
some  of  his  family  in  the  present,  and  to  others  in  the 
past,  specially  poor  Byron.     The  intelligent  guide  of  the 
hotel,  Cristoforo  Stanganelli,  had  known  Byron  well,  and 
spoke  of  him  as  he  accompanied  me  to  the  tombs  of  Dante 
and  Theodoric.     I  visited  first  the  former.     It  is  a  small 
chapel-like  building,  not  architecturally  handsome.     The 
story  of  the  discovery  of  the  bones  in  one  of  the  churches 


«! 


92 


ITALY     AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


is  well  known.     At  the  end  of  the  interior  is  a  statue  of 
the  poet,   anything  but  flattering,  as  it  seems  to  have 
suffered  from  sundry  stones  thrown  at  it,  as  though  Dante's 
fate  on  earth,  even  in  effigy,  was  not  to  be  a  peaceful  one. 
Various  votive  offerings    from    Italian   cities    and   from 
individuals  adorn  the  walls.     Here,  then,  were  the  mortal 
remains  of  Italy's  greatest  poet.     That  he  died  in  this 
city  is  an  honour  which  Florence  may  well  envy.      He 
entered  earth  from   Florence  and  heaven  from  Ravenna. 
To  think  that   some  of  his  last  footsteps   were  on  the 
broken  pebbles  of  these  streets  makes  them  all  sacred 
ground.     It  has  been  often  said  that  what  is  spoken  in 
song  has  been  learned  in  suffering ;  but,  as  there  is  comfort 
in  the  thought,  it  will  bear  repetition.     Where  had  been 
the  "  Divina  Commedia"  without  Dante's  woes  ?     Many 
envy  a  poet's  powers.     Few  could  stand  his  training. 

I  spoke  of  broken  pebbles.     Hawthorne  says  that  the 
round  pebbles  of  Home  make  the  ascent  of  her  seven  hills 
a  perpetual  penitential   pilgrimage.     This  is  true,  as  I 
afterwards  proved.      The  streets  of  Ravenna  are   more 
level,  but  rougher  still,  the  pebbles  being  broken  and  sharp. 
Very,  very  old  Ravenna  looks,   but  bowers  of  tranquil 
greenery  surround  her,  of  the  freshest,  youngest  verdure. 
A  grove  of  bright  feathery  acacias  led  to  the  sward  on 
which  stood  the  tomb  of  Theodoric  the  Goth.     Surely  the 
Goths  and  the  Romans  had  much  in  common.     The  Gauls, 
or  Celts  were  altogether  different  in  character,  and  their 
incursions    accordingly,  though  sharp,    were   short;    the 
results  for  the  most  part  ending  with   their  departure. 


I 


RAVENNA.  ^^ 

Not  so  with  the  persistent  Goths.      They  stayed.      It 
seemed  a  new  Roman  race  overcoming  the  old.     But  there 
is  one  marked  distinction  between  all  the  Latin  and  the 
Gothic  families.     The  former  are  made  for  consolidation 
and  for  national  greatness ;   the  latter  for  independence 
and  individual  greatness.     Thus  we  see  why,  in  the  old 
prophetic  vision,  it  was  said  that  the  Roman  iron  should 
be  mixed  with  the  Gothic  clay.     Statues  are  modelled  in 
clay;     clay    therefore   foreshows   the    Gothic   individual 
greatness.      Iron  bands   unite   the   limbs   of  ponderous 
machinery ;  iron  therefore  typifies  the  Roman  associative 
instinct.     But  in  massiveness  of  character  and  achieve- 
ment the  Goths  and  the  Romans  are  alike.     This  tomb  oi 
Theodoric  is  a  round  stone  chamber,  roofed  with  one  single 
stone,  so  huge  that  we  wonder  what  leverage  could  have 
raised  it  to  its  place.     Giants  alone  could  have  been  equal 
to  the  effort.     All  was  solemn  silence.     A  little  bird  flew 
in  suggestively  through  a  small  opening  on  one  side  of  the 
chamber  and  passed  out  through  a  like  opening  on  the 
other.      The   acacias,   in  their   light   spring-like   green, 
waved  tremblingly  without,  all  down  their  long  arcades, 
which  were  Byron's  favourite  morning  walk.     Within   all 
was  still.     The  bones  of  the  old  Goth  lay  there  alone. 
These  tombs  and  these  memories  are  the  glory  of  Ravenna. 
But  not  these    only.     Not  far   from    the   pine-wood  of 
Dante,  filled  yet  with  the  whispers  of  "  La  Vita  Nuova," 
some  way  further  on  among  the  trees,  is  another  tomb. 
Along  the  acacia-bordered  road,  leading  from  the  tomb  of 
Theodoric,  Garibaldi  and  a  few  of  his  faithful  followers 


I 


4 


94 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


RIMINI,    AND    FROM    ANCONA    TO    ROME. 


95 


walked  (so  Stanganelli  told  me),  in  the  autumn  of  1849, 
bearing  the  body  of  Anita.  There  they  left  the  remains 
of  the  loved  and  loving  woman,  in  the  wood  haunted  by 
the  sighs  of  Dante,  and  visited  by  the  murmurs  of  the  sea. 
So,  by  strange  coincidences,  are  the  great  of  every  age 
associated.  The  sternly  simple  monument  of  Theodoric 
witnessed  the  funeral  procession  of  the  Anita*  of  the  verily 
Gothic  Garibaldi,  and  the  poet  of  the  past,  and  the  hero 
of  the  present,  met  in  the  pine-forest  of  Ravenna,  and, 
invisibly,  grasped  hands. 

*  That  walk  must  have  been  to  her  tomb;  for  I  have  since 
learned,  from  a  reliable  source,  that  Afiita  was  buried  by  peasants 
in  hurried  secrecy. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

RIMINI,    AND    FROM    ANCONA    TO    ROME. 

I  MADE  one  more  halt,  on  my  way  to  Ancona,  at  Rimini, 
a  small  seaport  town  on  the  Adriatic.     The  Rubicon  is 
somewhere  between  Ravenna  and  this  town,  so  I  must 
have  crossed  it  unconsciously.     I  walked  along  the  main 
street  of  Rimini,  again  over  pebbles,  round,  though  not 
so  sharp  as  those  of  Ravenna — past  the  old  palace,  where 
poor  Francesca  must  have  spent  her  girlhood,  in  part  of 
which  house,  I  think  my  guide  told  me,  an  Englishman 
now  resides — to   the   Roman    arch   built   by   Augustus, 
which  terminates  the  road  in  massive  grandeur,  darkened 
but  undestroyed  by  time.     The  inhabitants  of  the  sombre 
old  town  seemed  a  lively  set,  fond  of  gay  costume,  like  a 
fishing  population  as  they  are,  and  having  affairs  of  their 
own  engaging,  but  not  absorbing,  their  thoughts  ;  for,  if  1 
remember  right,  Rimini   aided   well  in  the  struggle   of 
1849.     Soon  the  train  set  forward  once  more,  and  bore 
me,  often  along  the  sea-shore,  to  Ancona,  which  I  reached 
late  at  night,  sleeping  in  an  uncivilised  inn  outside  the 
walls,  and  leaving  in  the  morning,  at  length,  for  Rome. 
Through  the  Marches  and  Umbria  lay  the  road  across  the 
Apennines,  and,  therefore,  through  frequent  tracts  of  dark- 
ness ;  chiefly  a  stony,  dreary  way,  realising  many  a  scene 


90 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


of  desolation  in  Dante's  journcyings.     The  sandstone  of 
the  Apennines  gives  a  colouring  of  yellow  ochre  to  the 
landscape,   and  sometimes   of  burnt  umber,  which  latter 
word  might  be  thought  to  have  more  than  an  accidental 
connection  with  the  name  of  the  district,  but  that  that 
name   was   in   all   probability   derived   from   some   term 
alluding  to  the  shade  cast  by  the  once  numerous  trees,  of 
which  these  mountains  have  been  so  often  and  so  ruth- 
lessly despoiled.     This  ferruginous  hue  is  but  little  varied 
with  occasional  green;    but   ever    and    anon    there  are 
features  of  striking  grandeur  in  those  cities  set  on  a  hill, 
which   are   one   of  the   characteristic   glories   of  Italian 
scenery.     Trevi,  for  instance,  whence  is  brought  to  Rome, 
by  one  of  those  aqueducts  which  must  emulate  the  aque- 
ducts of  ancient  days  (if  they  are  not  the  ancient  aqueducts 
converted  to  new  uses),  the  water  of  the  fountain  of  the 
same  name;   and  Terni,  which  boasts  its  celebrated  water- 
fall.     The  fountain  of  Clitumnus,  being  close  to  Spoleto, 
between  Trevi  and  Terni,  it  may  be  from  that  fountain 
that  the  waters  of  Trevi  flow ;  perhaps,  also,  it  is  this  very 
fountain  which  excursionists  from  Terni  visit,  but  I  am 
not  sure  on  these  heads.     My  travelling  companions  were 
a  sister  of  charity,  who  had  an  old  man  under  her  charge, 
and  who  was  returning  to  her  monastery  at  Rome  (for  so 
cloisters  for  ivomen  are  called   in  Italy),  and  a   Roman 
family,  consisting  of  a  gentleman  and  his  wife,  and  one  or 
two  sweet  children.     These  latter  were  most  courteous, 
and  gave  me  some  useful  information.     The  nun,  or  sister 
of  charity,  was  terribly  frightened  when  we  had  to  alight 


RIMINI,    AND    FROM    ANCONA    TO    ROME. 


97 


(at  Foligno)  for  the  inspection  of  our  baggage,  and  seemed 
to  wish  to  hide  behind  me  for  protection.  She  must,  I 
think,  have  been  a  nun,  and  had  evidently  been  despatched 
on  a  special  mission,  under  strict  orders.  She  was  of 
middle  age,  and  looked  sleek  and  comfortable,  but  cer- 
tainly unaccustomed  to  travelling. 

Evening  fell,  the  gloom  increasing  gradually,  till  it  was 
darkness,  but  for  the  stars.     At  last,  not  very  far  from 
midnight,  the   train   stopped.     We   were   at    Rome,  the 
Rome  of  Julius  Caesar  and  of  the  Gracchi,  and  also  in  the 
present  (as  I  felt  the  more  vividly  that  I  was  even  then 
reading  the  life  of  that  patriot),  the  Rome   of   Mazzini, 
and  of  Garibaldi,  and  xVnita.     Alas  !  now  the  Rome  where 
Popery  drags  on  its  serpent-like  existence!     I  will  not 
say  the  Rome  of  the  Pope.     No ;  she  is  neither  the  city 
of  the  Pope  nor  of  the  Emperor.     All  sorrows  endured 
cannot  change  the  nature,  nor  give  right  to  the  inflictor  of 
wrong.     Only  love  can  really  possess ;   and  only  truth  can 
really  reign.     It  was   the  31st  of  October,   Hallowe'en. 
Verily  the  Dead  were  abroad  that  night,  and  the  Invisible 
filled  the  air,  as  I  set  foot  in  Rome. 


II 


OS 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


ROME. 


99 


ROME. 


ROME.** 


THE       CITY. 


THE      SYSTEM. 


Rome  !  Rome  !  Thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been ; 
On  thy  seven  hills  of  yore 

Thou  sat'st  a  Queen. 
Thou  had'st  thy  triumphs  then, 

Purpling  the  street ; 
Princes  and  sceptred  men 

Bowed  at  thy  feet. 
Rome  !  Rome  !  Thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been. 
Rome  !  Thine  imperial  brow 

Never  shall  rise. 
What  hast  thou  left  thee  now  ? 

Thou  hast  thy  skies ; 
Thou  hast  the  sunset's  glow, 

Rome,  for  thy  dower. 
Flushing  tall  cypress  bough. 

Temple  and  tower. 
Rome  !  Rome  !  Thou  art  no  more 
As  thou  hast  been. 


I' 


Rome  !  Rome  !  Thou  art  the  same, 

And  e'er  wilt  be  ; 
Thou  bearcst  still  the  name 

Of  mystery. 
Still  wearing,  as  thy  right. 

The  triple  crown, 
Life,  liberty,  and  light 

Thou  treadest  down. 
Rome  I  Rome  !  Thou  art  the  same. 

And  e'er  wilt  be. 
Rome  !  Thou  art  still  attired 

In  pearls  and  gold ; 
By  kings  and  realms  admired 

Now  as  of  old. 
Ready  thou  dost  remain 

In  force  and  wile 
To  kindle  yet  again 

The  martyr's  pile. 
Rome  !  Rome  !  Thou  art  the  same, 

And  e'er  wilt  be. 


Mrs.  Ilemans. 


E.  S.  G.  S. 


H  2 


100 


ITALY    AND    HEIl    CAPITAL. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

ROME. 

"  Go  thou  to  Rome,  at  once  the  paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness." — 

Shelley's  Adonais. 

"  The  orphans  of  the  heart  do  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires." — Byron. 

♦'  Roma  I'Eterna." 

To  wake  for  the  first  time  in  Rome  !  Rogers  speaks  of 
the  sensation  which,  to  be  understood,  must  be  experienced. 
To  know  that  that  rich  sunshine  which  bathes  the  room 
is  from  the  sun  of  Rome  the  Eternal !  Shall  we  say  the 
"eternally-dying"?  Alas!  this  expression  of  a  recent 
writer  has  been,  up  to  the  present,  too  sadly,  strangely 
\rue  ! 

I  had  driven,  on  my  arrival,  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna, 
in  the  English  quarter,  and  was  there  this  first  morning, 
in  an  English  boarding-house — that  of  the  Misses  Smith, 
of  well-known  fame.  Their  house,  a  large  and  comfortable 
upper  piano,  commanded  a  fine  view,  St.  Peter's  being 
clearly  visible  in  the  distance.  I  left  this  boarding-house 
that  day,  wishing  to  experience  Roman  life  in  Rome.  I 
therefore  went  next  to  the  Yincolo  dei  Greci,  a  turning 
out  of  the  Via  del  Babuino.  The  internal  cold  of  this 
house,  however,  compelled  me  to  conclude  my  week  in 


»' 


ROME. 


101 


Rome  at  an  hotel.  The  Roman  houses  are  chiefly  built 
with  the  view  of  providing  against  the  extreme  heat  of 
summer,  so  that  the  sun's  rays  are  almost  excluded.  This, 
combined  with  the  often  uncarpeted  rooms,  and  the  floors 
of  marble,  real  or  imitated,  makes  the  change  from  the 
outer  to  the  inner  atmosphere  considerable.  To  dream 
that  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls,  would,  after  such  experience 
of  the  reality,  be  anything  but  pleasant. 

This  morning,  November  Gth,  1867,  the  news  has  arrived 
of  the  arrest  of  Garibaldi  at  Terni,  after  his  retreat  from 
Monte  Rotondo,  and  of  his  projected  imprisonment  in 
Fort  Palmaria  in  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia.  Victor  Emmanuel 
has  not  allowed  the  achievements  of  1860  to  be  repeated 
at  Rome,  and  this,  because  he  is  himself  in  terror  of  the 
French  Emperor.  What  a  position  for  the  ruler  of  a 
nation  !     A  king  ?     Nay,  a  slave. 

The  Romans  are  bound  with  chains  none  the  less  strong 
because  invisible.  Garibaldi  could  have  freed  them.  Victor 
Emmanuel  can  and  w  ill  but  deliver  them  over  afresh  unto 
the  w^ill  of  their  enemies.  That  many  of  them  are  uncon- 
scious of  their  bondage  only  proves  the  more  that  they  are 
in  bonds,  and  that  they  must  be  set  free ^  since  they  cannot 
free  themselves.  Alas  for  Rome  !  Her  sorrows  are  not 
over  yet ! 

In  the  afternoon  I  wandered  out  to  gain  a  general  view 
of  the  city  from  the  Pincian  hill.  Having  ascended  a  broad 
flight  of  stone  steps,  I  supposed  I  had  reached  it,  but 
found  afterwards  that  I  had  then  been  standing  on  the 
elevation  called  the  Trinita  dei  Monti,  which  connects  the 


jMijMWiwjif  Ttww^yjgjW  ''fi'tlffljStf JWSS 


102 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


Pincian  with  the  Quirinal.  From  mj  roint  of  observation 
I  saw  St.  Peter's  to  the  west,  bached  by  the  cypresses  of 
Monte  Mario.  Ah  !  those  cypresses  !  Present  everywhere ! 
It  seems  as  if  fair  Italy  had  sung— 

"  Twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  weave  it  of  the  cypress-tree." 

The  Pincian   and  the    Janiculan,    between    which  is   St. 
Peter's,  are  not  inchided  in  the  seven  hills.     To  the  south 
lay  the'  chief  part  of  the  modern  city,  with,  as  I  could 
afterwards  discover  with  an  habituated  eye,  the  ruins  of 
ancient  Rome  to  the  extreme  south-west.     My  first  im- 
pression was  of  wonder  that  Rome  was  so  much  like  other 
cities.     Her  distinctiveness  I  learned  to  know  and  to  per- 
ceive ;  but  at  first,  the  marvel  was  that  she  was  built  of 
brick'  and  stone  (albeit  with  marble  intermingled),  like 
other  towns  that  men  inhabit.     So  the  first  thought  on 
seeing  Caesar  might  have  been  of  wonder  to  find  him  a  man 
like  others.     Rome  is  a  name— an  idea— a  dream  !     Yes  ; 
but  she  is  also  a  solid  reality,  which  reminds  us,  by  the 
way,  that  the  Romans  are  men  and  women,  with  hearts  and 
soul's ;  although,  by  long  servitude,  degraded,  yet  men  of 
like  necessities  with  ourselves. 

Rome  is  the  grandest,  saddest  city  in  the  world.  The 
modern  city  being  built,  as  is  well  known,  thirty  feet  above 
the  ancient,  is  to  it  as  one  vast  tomb.*  And  this  is  so 
also  in  another  sense.     The  Present  here  buries  the  Past, 

*  But  Jerusalem,  as  we  learn  from  the  excavations  now  being 
carried  on  by  Lieut.  Warren,  has  sunk  90  feet.  "  Under  the  whole 
heavens  hath  not  been  done  as  hath  been  done  upon  Jerusalem." 


* 


/ 


I 


ROME. 


lor 


which  lies  hid  beneath  its  weight,  whence  those  dull  earth- 
quake-sounds telling  of  the  volcano  below.  Will  the  Past 
arise  ?  Assuredly  ;  for  there  is  no  death  without  a  resur- 
rection. But  whether  that  arising  will  be  on  the  earth 
that  now  is,  is  a  question. 

The  seven  hills  are  (taking  them  in  alphabetical  order), 
the  Aventine,  the  Coelian,  the  Capitoline,  the  Esquiline, 
the  Palatine,  the  Quirinal,  and  the  Viminal.    Taking  them 
in  the  order  in  w^hich  you  reach  them  from  the  modern 
city— the  Quirinal,  the  Capitoline,  the  Palatine,  the  Esqui- 
line, the   Coelian,  the  Viminal,   and  the  Aventine.     The 
modern  city  chiefly  occupies  the  ancient  Campus  Martins, 
leaving,  however,  as  has  been  said,  the  relics  of  the  Past 
thirty  feet  below.     This  is  clearly  seen  in  the  Forum  of 
Trajan,  not  far  from  the  Barbcrini  Palace  and  from  the 
Fountain  of  Trevi.     The  column,  representing  spirally  on 
its  surface  the  victories  of  Trajan  over  the  Dacians,  stands 
at  the   end,  the  statue  of  the  emperor   having   been  re- 
placed by  that  of  an  apostle — St.  Paul,  I  think— just  as  St. 
Peter  supplants  Marcus  Antoninus  in  the  Piazza  Colonna. 
Napoleon  I.  had  this  forum  excavated  to  its  ancient  level ; 
and  the  pillars  remain,  though  few  of  them  entire,  amid 
the  grass  which  always  grows  so  luxuriantly  among  ruins, 
as  if  it  knew  they,  too,  were  graves.     You  look  down 
through  a  railed  enclosure  upon  this  space,  as  into  a  deep 
well,  and  thus  realize  what  is  in  a  measure  everywhere 
true,  but  at  Rome  is  evident,  that  the  Present  builds  upon 
the  Past ;   and  that  our  modern  life  is  but  a  geological 
stratum,  which  causes,  partly  slowly  cumulative,  and  partly 


<  ■ 

'I 


104 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


fiercely  volcanic,  have  superposed  on  the  preceding,  which 
it  crowns,  not  destroys.  And  the  waves  of  time  deal  with 
the  fossils  of  previous  strata,  turning  many  a  plant  of 
withered  human  hope  into  fuel  to  warm  our  hearts  and 
aid  us  in  our  labours ;  many  a  black,  hard  stone  into  a 
priceless  gem ;  but  washing  nothing  into  oblivion,  sweep- 
ing nothing  to  destruction — hiding,  burying,  truly — but 
guarding  well  their  stores  till  the  day  shall  come  for  that 
sea  also  to  give  up  its  dead. 

And  so  I  stood  that  afternoon,  looking  across  St.  Peter's 
to  the  sunset,  on  whose  amber  ocean  rose  the  cypresses, 
like  the  dark  masts  of  some  ship  of  doom,  and  then,  turn- 
ing, looked  over  the  city  spreading  beneath,  and  lying 
there  so  tranquilly,  as  though  she  had  never  made  a  head 
to  ache,  nor  sent  her  terrible  mandates,  first  of  war  and 
then  of  persecution,  over  the  trembling  earth.  Ah  !  I 
prayed  that  when  He  Who  cometh  out  of  His  place  to 
punish  the  inhabitants  of  the  world  for  their  iniquity, 
visits  guilty  Rome,  He  may,  while  smiting  the  system 
which  has  cursed  her  people,  spare  the  city,  and  save  her 
children. 

Rome  !  sorrowful,  mighty,  still  glorious  Rome  !  Turn 
from  the  vanities  which  have  maddened  and  blinded  thee, 
from  thy  false  gods  that  cannot  save — and  learn  of  Him 
"VYho  has  prepared  His  salvation  "  before  the  face  of  all 
people" — before  thine! 


V. 


'Si 


ART    TN    ROME. 


105 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


ART    IN    ROME. 


"  Farewell !  farewell !  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  sweet  dreams,  at  distance  from  the  kind ; 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied,  for  'tis  surely  blind. 
But  welcome  fortitude  and  patient  cheer. 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne." 

"  If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse ; 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 
Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse. 
The  mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay." — Wordsworth. 

Foreigners,  chiefly  English  and  American,  and  artists, 
also  chiefly  from  America  and  England,  have  a  Rome  of 
their  own  all  to  themselves.  And  if  they  are  sufficiently 
wealthy  for  their  needs,  and  are  strangers  to  those  cares 
for  others  which  disturb  the  heart,  and  thence  the  brain, 
they  may  here  pretty  easily  delude  themselves  that  earth 
is  not  so  very  much  changed  from  old  Eden  after  all. 
Always  supposing,  be  it  remembered,  that  they  do  live  in 
a  world  of  their  own,  and  not  in  this  world  of  God's 
making  and  the  Devil's  marring.  Of  God's  ruling  still, 
nevertheless :  for  vet  "  The  earth  is  the  Lord's  and  the 
fulness  thereof,  the  world  and  they  that  dwell  therein." 


106 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


ART    IN    ROME. 


107 


How,  in  such  a  case,  however,  artists  could  be  artists, 
is  certainly  a  question  difficult  of  solution.  And  so  we 
must  conclude  that  these  are  sad  sometimes,  even  in  Rome. 
Although  the  air  is  full  of  balm,  as  if  those  skies  of  purple- 
blue  rained  sweetness  down  ;  although  the  ignorant  and 
degraded  populace  are  yet  so  picturesque  in  the  warm 
colouring  wherewith  the  sun  has  painted  them,  and  in 
their  gesticulations  so  graceful  and  empathic,  which  un- 
fortunately mean  nothing,  that  every  group  and  every 
figure  is  a  study,  especially  when  from  the  large  languid 
eyes  come  flashes  of  dark  fire  which  remind  of  what  once 
was,  and  show  what  yet  might  be. 

I  visited  the  studios  of  Story,  the  American  sculptor, 
and  that  where  Gibson,  the  graceful  artist  and  true-hearted 
man,  laboured  till  his  death,  not  long  ago.  Story  is  surely, 
in  his  own  line,  the  first  sculptor  of  the  age,  as  his 
*' Cleopatra"  and  "Libyan  Sibyl,"  exhibited  in  London 
in  18G2,  prove — to  me,  at  least.  Hawthorne  speaks  of  the 
first  with  his  usual  truthful  criticism  in  that  "  Transforma- 
tion "  of  his,  which  is  as  valuable  as  a  guide  to  Rome  as  it 
is  fascinating  as  a  romance.  That  book  and  "  Corinne  " 
reflect  faithfully  Rome  in  the  spirit.  No  paltry  conven- 
tionalisms shackle  Story  in  his  work,  and  he  can  well 
dispense  with  them,  since  the  power  of  his  genius  enables 
him  to  speak  to  us  clearly  in  his  own  language.  In  his 
'*  Cleopatra"  we  have  no  turbaned,  vulgar  woman,  utterly 
unable  to  move  the  hearts  or  sway  the  counsels  of  princes, 
but  a  woman  self-contained  and  terrible;  voluptuous, 
luxurious,  but  determined.    A  sort  of  female  Napoleon  I., 


♦ 


equally  powerful  and  equally  unscrupulous.  The  "  Libyan 
Sibyl  "  is  another  Cleopatra,  only  mightier  and  more  evil 
still ;  a  she-devil.  A  dark,  mysterious  power  is  Story's. 
He  is  a  master  of  the  sublime,  not  of  the  tender  or  the 
beautiful.  Gibson  has  left  behind  him  some  specimens  of 
these.  His  force,  in  his  line,  is  less  than  Story's ;  but  this 
may  be  because  the  fearful  always  tells  more  in  represen- 
tation than  the  lovely,  which  rather  evades  expression  in 
the  works  of  man.  In  God's  works  it  is  otherwise  ;  and 
a  loving  smile  on  the  commonest  human  face  is  mightier 
than  the  scowl  of  a  tyrant.  My  favourites  of  the  works 
of  Gibson  are,  first,  "  Pandora;"  and  next,  "  Justice  and 
Mercy,"  supporting  the  throne  of  our  Queen,  which  is,  as 
need  not  be  said,  in  the  robing-room  at  Westminster. 
Among  the  other  casts  of  his  sculptures,  I  saw  his  first 
work,  "Mars  and  Cupid;"  and  his  last,  "Theseus  Slaying 
the  Robber,"  on  which  he  was  engaged  at  the  time  of  his 
death.  The  studio,  a  quiet  room  in  the  Vincolo  della 
Fontanella,  a  turning  out  of  the  Via  del  Babuino,  opened 
into  a  small  court-yard,  where,  beneath  the  dazzling  blue 
of  the  sky,  I  noticed  a  plant,  of  which  I  had  seen  an  insig- 
nificant specimen  in  England,  without  being  able  to  dis- 
cover its  appellation,  rising  here  to  a  great  height,  and 
with  clusters  of  blossoms  of  varied  colour  amid  its  dark 
rough  leaves.  I  asked  its  name  of  Baini,  the  talented 
assistant  of  Gibson,  who  now  replaces  him,  and  was  told  it 
was  "  Lontana  Camera,  or  the  Distant  Room,"  a  name 
suggestive  and  poetical,  it  will  be  confessed. 


i    I 


108 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 

Lontana  Camera  !    Whence  came 
The  mystic  pathos  of  thy  name  ? 
Did  dead  hands  hold  thee,  that  are  g"one 
To  wave  the  palm  before  the  Throne  ? 
Or  didst  thou  hear  Love's  latest  sigh, 
And  keep  it  as  thy  legacy  ? 

I  saw  thee  'neath  the  sky  of  Rome, 
And  felt  that  blue  must  arch  thy  home. 
I  thought  how  cold  thy  rest  must  be, 
Far  from  thy  sunny  Italy, 
Where  English  vapours  sadly  lour 
Chill  welcome  on  the  lonely  flower. 

But  ihere  thou  stoxlest  at  the  door 
Where  he  had  toiled  who  toils  no  more. 
There,  'mid  thy  dark  leaves,  richly  grew 
Thy  clustered  blooms  of  varied  hue — 
Orange,  and  gold,  and  rosy  red. 
Guarding  the  sculptures  of  the  dead, 

Lontana  Camera!    What  heart 
Hath  not  for  thee  a  place  apart, 
Where  she  may  turn  her  from  annoy 
Not  to  the  roses  of  her  joy, 
But  where  the  shades  thy  smile  enhance 
Safe  from  all  winds  of  circumstance  ? 

When  Memory  plucks  thee  as  she  sings, 
She  shows  us  unforgotten  things — 
The  room  where  lay  our  dead— the  room 
Where  we  are  greeted  as  we  come 
By  unchanged  voices,  that  we  hear 
Where'er  we  roam — no  otherwhere. 

I  do  believe,  that  far  away 

With  Jesus  in  the  realms  of  day — 

Since  Love  and  holy  Memory 

Immortal  are,  and  cannot  die  — 

If  never  more  on  earth's  low  plain, 

I  there  shall  see  thee,  flower,  again. — E.  S.  G.  S. 


ART    IN    ROME. 


109 


'\ 


f 


Baini  was  evidently  much  attached  to  Gibson,  who, 
while  he  was  a  fine,  if  not  a  first-rate  sculptor,  was  some- 
thing better — a  noble  man.  Some  surprise  at  my  lonely 
wanderings  having  been  expressed  by  Baini,  I  answered, 
'  Viaggio  con  Dio.'*    ''  Va  bene  !  Brava  ! "  was  the  reply. 

The  paintings  at  the  Vatican  are  not  numerous.  The 
most  noticeable  are,  Raphael's  "  Transfiguration,"  and  the 
''  Return  of  the  Prodigal,"  by  Murillo.  Sculpture  has 
there  her  palace.  You  enter  those  galleries,  now  con- 
nected with  the  cruellest,  meanest  despotism  in  the  world, 
through  a  corridor  lined  with  fragments  from  the  Cata- 
combs, telling  of  days  when  the  faith  of  Rome  (as  now,  alas  ! 
her  blasphemy  and  mysteries  of  darkness)  was  "  si)oken 
of  throughout  the  whole  world."  Then  there  are  the  cele- 
brated loggie,  adjoining  a  corner  of  the  garden,  and  con- 
taining, each  in  its  separate  niche,  some  gem  of  sculpture, 
mostly,  if  not  all,  belonging  to  mythological  times.  There 
writhes  the  "  Laocoon  "  in  perpetual  agony  ;  there  stands 
the  "  Apollo  Belvedere  "  in  defiant  beauty,  albeit  a  beauty 
heathen  in  its  completeness,  and  belonging  wholly  to  the 
life  that  now  is. 

The  Capitol !  We  must  look  now  for  a  few  moments 
at  its  art-treasures.  The  line  of  old  emperors  is  still  here 
in  reigning  dignity,  cold,  powerful  representations  of  men 
who  were,  with  very  few  exceptions,  as  their  portraits  too 
faithfully  show,  morally  worthless.      But   here,   too,  are 

*  "  I  travel  with  God."  Rather,  perhaps,  from  some  inexplicable 
difference  in  the  genius  of  languages,  we  should  say,  «*  God  travels 
with  me." 


;',:::  ^-.^  "^7?;  ■'^^^$y'0:i^^^^f&^%^^'^^^ 


110 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


some  choice  gems  of  sculpture.  The  ever-playful  "  Faun," 
the  ever-mournful  "  Antinous,"  "Juno,*'  and  "Venus," 
the  famed  "  Venus  of  the  Capitol."  While  the  completed 
beauty  of  these  trophies  of  heathenism  forms,  as  has  been 
said,  a  marked  contrast  to  the  works  of  Christian  art, 
which  are  always  sketches  rather  than  realizations,  sha- 
dows of  some  mystery  of  glory,  whereof  the  substance  is 
beyond  this  earth ;  yet  these  lieathen  works,  in  their  best 
examples,  bear  a  strange  weight  of  sorrow.  Witness  the 
"  Antinous."  Sorrow  ?  say,  rather,  despair.  Among 
the  paintings  at  the  Capitol,  those  living  in  my  memory 
are — the  "  Persian  Sibyl,"  by  Guercino  (which  shows  that 
that  painter  had  formed  a  wholly  different  theory  respecting 
those  mysterious  women  from  that  of  Story,  as  embodied 
in  the  statue  above-described)  ;  the  "  Holy  Family,"  by 
Giorgione ;  the  "  Scourging  of  Jesus,"  and  the  "  Magda- 
lene," both  by  Tintoretto.  Although,  probably,  it  is  a 
mistake  to  confound  "  Mary  of  Magdala,"  with  the 
"  Woman  which  was  a  Sinner,"  yet  here  we  have  the  latter 
truly  in  her  penitence.  Tintoretto  felt  what  he  painted ; 
felt  it  terribly,  and  therefore  saw  it,  if  not  always  in  every 
point  as  it  was,  yet  always  as  it  might  have  been.  But  the 
picture  of  "  Rome,"  is  that  of  which  Hawthorne  speaks, 
and  which  hangs  in  the  Barberini  Palace, — a  portrait 
from  life  —  Guido's  '*  Beatrice  Cenci."  Not  far  from 
Story's  studio  is  this  palace,  containing  the  face  of  her 
whose  life-tale  he  truly  calls*  "the  saddest  of  all  earth's 

*  In  his  "  Roba  di  Roma,"  a  book  full  of  the  most  graphic 
description  of  the  outward  life  of  Rome. 


ART    IN    ROME. 


Ill 


sorrowful  histories."  I  felt  that  face  alone  was  well  worth 
crossing  ocean  and  mountain  to  see ;  and,  to  be  seen,  it 
must  be  looked  on  in  the  original  painting.  I  stood 
gazing,  lost  in  an  inner  communing,  spirit  to  spirit,  with 
her  whose  soul  looked  out  upon  me  from  those  eyes.  One 
of  those  thousand  copyists  who  have  done  their  poor  best 
to  give  the  world  outside  a  knowledge  of  her  countenance, 
said  to  me  in  Italian,  "  the  face  speaks  deep  sorrow." 
'  No,'  I  said,  '  not  sorrow, — stanchezza  e  pace— weariness 

and  peace.' 

There  are  faces  which  are  in  themselves  sermons  ;  there 
are  faces  which  are  themselves  evidences  of  Christianity. 
Only  for  heaven  could  they  have  grown  to  this  mould. 
Only  in  heaven  can  the  message  which  they  speak  be  fully 
uttered.  The  face  of  Beatrice  is  one  of  these.  When  we 
meet  there,  my  sister,  the  wondering  inquiry  in  thy  be- 
seeching eyes  will  have  found  its  answer.  Their  yearning 
tenderness  will  be  in  them  still,  by  which,  among  the  ran- 
somed, I  shall  know  thee.  For  those  eyes  tell  us  that 
thou  didst  leave  this  strange,  sad  world,  with  love  in  thy 
heart  to  all — even  thy  father. 


I 


\ 


112 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAriTAI-. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


THE    PROTESTANT    CEMETERY. 


*'  A  slope  of  green  access, 
WTiere,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread." 

Shelley's  Adonais. 

The  Protestant  Cemetery  is  just  outside  the  walls  of  Rome, 
not  far  from  the  Porta  San  Sebastiano.  As  is  well  known 
by  those  acquainted  with  descriptions  of  the  city,  the 
pyramid  erected  to  the  memory  of  the  old  Roman,  Caius 
Cestius,  guards  the  entrance.  The  grand  tower-tomb  of 
Cecilia  Metella  is  not  far  distant,  and  the  Catacombs,  at 
once  the  home  and  grave  of  the  early  Christians,  wind 
close  beneatli.  Thus  the  ancient  city  and  the  first  time  of 
Christianity,  ere  yet  "  the  mystery  of  iniquity"  had  grown 
to  strength,  have  both  their  memorials  near  this  garden, 
whose  "  long  homes"  are  tenanted  chiefly  by  the  English. 
Here,  as  every  English  heart  knows,  is  the  grave  of  Keats 
— the  tomb  raised  by  Severn,  his  artist-friend,  still  bright 
and  fresh,  even  as  the  poetry  of  him  whose  ashes  lie  below. 
Poor  boy  !  Shelley's  heart  lies  not  fur  off.  It  need  not 
be  told  that,  after  Shelley's  death,  through  that  squall  in 
the  Gulf  of  Spczzia,  his  remains  were  burnt,  with  the 
exception  of  his  heart,  which  was  sent  or  brought  by 
Byron  to  Rome,  to  lie  in  that  spot  of  which  he  has  writLen 


i 


THE    PROTESTANT    CEMETERY. 


113 


60  touchingly  in  "  Adonais,"  near  the  dust  of  him  to  whom 
that  poem  is  so  sympathetic  a  tribute.  The  emotions 
raised  by  the  graves 'of  Keats  and  Shelley,  and  others  like 
them,  are,  indeed,  too  deep  for  words,  too  deep  even  for 
thought. 

"  The  God  that  made  them,  He  alone 
Decidedly  can  try  them." 

This  is  very  certain,  that  men  acted  unkindly  and  unjustly 
to  both,  as  they  always  do  to  such.  Less  so  as  to  Keats ;  * 
although  the  world  is  readier  to  see  and  own  its  fault  in  his 
case.  Had  he  not  been  ill,  he  could  well  have  dealt  with 
his  reviewers ;  and  it  is  probable  that  he  died  of  consump- 
tion, and  not  of  criticism.  As  to  Shelley,  I  believe  he 
was  driven  not  intellectually,  but  morally  mad,  very  greatly 
through  the  treatment  of  those  who  ought  to  have  been 
his  teachers,  "  speaking"  to  him  "  the  truth  in  love."  I 
do  not  say  the  ivorld,  for  from  it  nothing  better  is  to  be 
expected,  but  I  do  say  that  Christians  have  much  to  answer 
for  in  similar  cases.  Amid  all  the  labours  of  philanthropy 
— amid  all  the  well-organized  and  industriously  conducted 
schemes  of  benevolence,  the  grand  Christian  duty  of  indi- 
vidual, loving,  heart-to-heart  dealing  with  such  souls  as 
these,  such  precious  trusts  from  God^  is  almost,  without 
exception,  neglected  and  ignored.  That  which  is  *'lame" 
is  "  turned  out  of  the  way,"  when  it  ought  to  be  "  healed,'' 
and  gently,  lovingly  led  into  the  paths  of  peace.     By  what 


*  With  Keats,  I  feel  the  evil  was  less,  because  his  was  a  smaller 
nature  than  Shelley's,  though  more  perfect  in  its  own  line.  He 
I)ad  more  talent ;  Shelley  truer  genius. 


114 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


loss  to  mankind's  best  interests  such  neglect  is  followed,  I 
believe  the  Great  Day  alone  will  declare.  For  souls  like 
these,  hearts  so  strong  to  love,  minds  so  mighty  to  influ- 
ence, as  those  of  poets  must  be,  are  worth  many  of  common 
men.  I  mean  not  to  be  ''  a  respecter  of  persons,"  but, 
verily,  these  are  of  them  who  "  take  the  world  in  tow,"  and 
if  they  go  wrong,  many  lesser  ones  will  follow.  There  is 
one  living  writer,  who  shall  be  nameless,  whom  society  is 
doing  her  best  to  hound  into  dark  scepticism,  or  if  she  fails 
in  this,  to  make  to  glory  in  his  shame. 

A  son  of  Story  the  sculptor  is  buried  here;  and  the 
tomb  of  Gibson  was  preparing  when  I  was  in  Rome.  When 
I  last  visited  the  cemetery,  a  Danish  funeral  was  going  on. 
A  tall,  grave  man,  in  a  small  black  cap,  like  a  Genevan 
reformer,  was  speaking,  doubtless  of  Him  who  is  "  the 
Resurrection  and  the  Life,"  though  in  a  tongue  to  me 
unknown. 


THE    RUINS    OF    ROME. 


115 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


THE    RUINS    OF    ROME. 


"  Strong  with  old  strength  of  great  things  fallen  and  fled." 

Swinburne's  Song  of  Italy. 

"  While  stands  the  Colosseum,  Rome  shall  stand. 
When  falls  the  Colosseum,  Rome  shall  fall. 
And  when  Rome  falls— the  World." 

Anglo-Saxon  proverb. 

Rome  herself  is  a  ruin,  but  a  ruin  majestic,  mighty,  impe- 
rial. She  is  as  one  not  dead,  but  in  a  trance ;  and  the  ques- 
tion unavoidably  suggests  itself,  Why  does  she  not  arise 
and  grasp  again  the  fallen  sceptre  ?  The  answer  would  be 
a  long  one,  and  the  secret  undoubtedly  is  in  the  burden  of 
that  accursed  system  of  lies,  which  weighs  upon  her  like  a 
night-  mare,  crushing  her  life,  and  in  hers  the  life  of  Italy. 
That  Anglo-Saxon  proverb,  quoted  by  Byron,  will  assuredly 
be  verified. 

Still  the  Colosseum  stands.  You  pass  to  it  along  the 
Via  Sacra,  from  the  Forum,  under  the  Arch  of  Titus. 
This  last  is  as  fresh  as  if  raised  yesterday,  and  the  alto- 
relievos,  which,  being  on  the  inside  of  the  Arch,  are  pre- 
served from  the  weather,  tell  the  tale  of  Judah's  captivity 
in  tones  as  clear  as  ever.  On  the  one  side  is  Titus,  in  a 
triumphal  chariot,  heralded  by  Victory ;  on  the  other  is 
the  procession  of  laurel-crowned  Romans,  bearing  the 
sacred    vessels    of    the    Temple:     the    candlestick,     the 

I  2 


mtmn-mmmSiiiStAiaaiiiiib^sitsSiii^ 


£A^^i&£^fi^ 


I. 


116 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


table  of  she-^-bread,   or   the  altar   of  incense,   and   tbe 
silver  trumpets,  the  typical  Jew  walking  beside,  with  his 
hands  fastened  behind  him,  and  his  head  bowed  in  despair. 
I  have  heard  that  the  captive  Jews  were  the  chief  builders 
of  the  Colosseum,  as  they  were  of  the  Pyramids,  70,000 
being  employed  in  the  construction,  in  this  case,   of  an 
empire's  tomb.     The  Jew  is  everywhere  and  always  the 
secret  of  history.     And  there  is  something  unspeakably 
suggestive  and  solemn  in  passing  to  that  marvellous  ruin, 
mightier,  more  massive  in  its  decay  than  any  structure  of 
modern  times,  beneath  that  Arch  which  Time,  in  his  flight, 
has  been  compelled  to  spare.     "  God  hath  not  cast  away 
his  people,"  according  to  that  word  of  His,  *'  I  will  sift 
the  house  of  Israel  among  all  nations,  as  corn  is  sifted  in 
a  sieve,  yet  shall  not  the  least  grain  fall  upon  the  earth." 

And  amid  the  stones  of  the  Colosseum,  that  very  type 
of  Rome,  these  words  re-echo  : — 

♦' Because  thou  hast  spoiled  many  nations"  (and  specially  that 
nation)  "  all  the  remnant  of  the  people  shall  spoil  thee." 

Sitting  on  a  projection  of  the  Arch  of  Titus,  was  one  of 
the  well-known  Roman  beggars,  who  garrulously  asked 
for  alms.  Speaking  to  her  a  word  about  Jesus,  for  she 
was  blessing  me  in  the  name  of  the  Virgin,  I  gave  her  a 
small  coin.  I  could  not  refuse  her.  Sitting  where  she 
sat,  she  seemed  to  my  eyes  a  type  of  Rome  herself,  once 
a  queen,  now  a  beggar, — once  saying  in  her  heart,  "  I 
shall  see  no  sorrow" — now  a  mourner  among  the  nations. 

In  sympathy  with  the  mind  and  the  heart  of  God,  I 
pray  for  the  peace  of  Jerusalem,  and  I  love  her  for  His 


THE    RUINS    OF    ROME. 


117 


sake  and  for  her  own,  for  her  woes,  her  endurance,  her 
faithful  griefs,  her  lasting  hopes.  But  the  sorrows  of 
Rome,  Italy's  discrowned  queen,  make  me  also  cling  to 
her  with  a  yearning  love,  which  pleads  with  God,  that 
while  He  destroys  Romanism,  that  evil  one,  "  drunken 
with  the  blood  of  the  saints,"  and  the  *'  mother  of  the 
abominations  of  the  earth,"  He  may  yet  spare  Rome,  and 
not  only  spare,  but  bless  !  For  is  not  this  she  whose  faith 
was  once  "  spoken  of  throughout  the  world  "  ?  Was  it  not 
a  Roman  at  whom  Jesus  marvelled,  saying  that  He  had 
not  "  found  so  great  faith,  no,  not  in  Israel "  ? 

Passing  up  the  Corso,  the  central  seat  of  Rome,  you 
reach  the  Capitol,  which  thus  from  this  entrance  domi- 
nates the  modern  city,  and  from  the  back,  or  rather  from 
the  side,  overlooks  the  ancient.     It  is  with  the  latter  we 
have  to  do  in  this  chapter.     The  Forum  lies  at  the  foot 
of  the  Capitol,  intersected  by  the  Via   Sacra,  the  very 
stones  of  which  you  tread,  when  by  a  door,  through  which 
a  porter  near  at  hand  admits  you,  you  descend  to  the 
ancient  level.     There,  on  a  sward  of  grass,  of  fresh,  full 
green,  stand  the  columns  reared  in  long  past  years.     A 
group,  belonging  to  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Capitolinus ; 
and  another  group,  the  remains,  according  to  some,  of  a 
temple  to  Concord,  according  to  others,  of  a  temple  to 
Victory.     To  the  left  is  the  grand  old  arch  of  Septimius 
Severus,  near  to  which,  in  the   subterranean  part  of  a 
ruined  building,  are  the  Mamertime  prisons.     A  modern 
road,  which  joins  the  Via  Sacra  (raised,  by  time,  some 
feet  above  the  old  level,  but  otherwise  the  same  as  in  the 


118 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


days  of  Horace),  divides  the  Forum  into  two  parts,  and 
then  diverging  at  a  right  angle,  passes  under  the  Arch  of 
Titus.     In   the   lower  division  of  the   Forum  are  some 
columns,  supposed  to  belong  to  a  temple,  raised  to  Julius 
Csesar;   and  Byron's  "pillar,  with  a  nameless  base,"  but 
on  which  modem  research  has  discovered  an  inscription, 
to  the  effect  that  it  was  reared  to  Fhocas.     Does  it  mean 
that  emperor  of  the  East  who,  by  conferring  new  privileges 
on  the  bishop  of  Rome,  turned  him  into  a  pope,  and  Rome 
into  the  seat  of  the  apostasy  ?     At  any  rate,  it  is  remark- 
able that  it  should  bear  the  name  of  him  who  loaded  Italy 
with  such  a  curse.     In  the  division  of  the  Forum,  next  to 
the  Capitol,  are  the  ruins  of  some  building,  close  to  which 
is  believed  to  have  been  the  ancient  centre,  and  the  spot 
where  Curtius  plunged  into  the  open  gulf.     That  legend 
has  had  many  a  verification  in  reality  ;   and  as  I  stood  on 
the  point  under  the  stars,  on  my  last  night  in  Rome  (for 
at  that  rather  un-Roman  hour  I  visited  it  for  farewell),  I 
could  but  think  how  many  had  plunged  in  full  young  life 
and  love  into  the  gulf  of  gloom  and  misery,  gaping  at  the 
feet  of  Rome,  because  of  the   moral  fires  whereon   her 
tyranny  is  based,  hoping  that,  on  their  self-sacrifice,  the 
vawninjr  mouth  would  close.     And  has  it  closed  ?     Alas  ! 
no.     Rome  is  still  built  on  a  volcano,  and  hark  !  it  rumbles 
still,  and  threateningly  !     I  spoke  to  the  guide  who  had 
led  me  along  the  underground  passage  of  the  Via  Sacra, 
connecting  the  two  divisions  of  the  Forum, — a  man  of 
much  intelligence,— of  another   city,   not   in   ruins,   but 
"  eternal  in  the  heavens,"  and  of  another  Via  Sacra  lead- 


THE    RUINS    OF    ROME. 


119 


ing  to  it — even  Jesus  Christ.  He  listened,  and  replied 
with  interest,  not,  I  believe,  merely  with  Italian  courtesy, 
but  with  thoughtfulness,  if  not  with  ready  acquiescence,  a 
thoughtfulness  which  showed  that  if  they  who  lead  this 
people  "  cause  them  to  err,"  many  of  them  are  ready  to 
learn  from  a  better  teacher. 

Fragments  of  columns  and  loose  stones,  many  of  them 
of  gleaming  whiteness,  strew  the  grass  beneath  these 
standing  remains  of  the  Past.  The  space  once  filled  with 
the  voice  of  Cicero,  now  echoes  to  the  voice  of  Memory, 
and  also  (let  us  listen  well  and  we  shall  hear  it)  to  the 
voice  of  Hope.  Weeds  slender  and  feathery  grow  amid 
the  crevices,  and  adorn  the  capitals  with  their  natural 
mouldings  of  unrivalled  grace.  Verily,  there  is  nothing 
earthly  fairer  than  a  ruin  ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  thraldom 
and  living  death  of  the  city  of  the  Present,  one  might  lose 
oneself  in  endless  dreams  in  this  city  of  the  Past.  But 
Rome  herself,  as  she  is,  recalls  us  to  grief  and  prayer  and 
effort  for  her  breathing  slaves. 

As  we  said,  soon  after  quitting  the  Forum,  you  pass 
under  the  Arch  of  Titus,  and  leaving  the  richly-orna- 
mented Arch  of  Constantine  to  the  right,  to  the  Colosseum. 
I  stood  within  its  circle,  beneath  a  sky  of  dark,  dazzling 
blue.  High  and  yet  higher  rose  the  arches,  to  their  ori- 
ginal height  in  one  part,  and  lowered,  whether  by  time  or 
depredation,  in  others.  This  truly  colossal  ruin  far  sur- 
passes any  picture  or  description.  I  will,  therefore,  not 
attempt  to  describe  it.  It  must  be  seen  and  felt.  The 
golden  sunlight  appears  to  radiate  from  its  mighty  masses 


120 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


of  unstained  stone,  casting  shadows  equally  mighty,  so 
that  they  seem  eternal.  On  the  intervening  earth,  in  one 
of  the  higher  arches,  a  thorny  shrub  had  rooted  itself,  and 
hung  down  in  yellow  festoons,  bright,  yet  mournful  in  its 
autumnal  tints.  I  stood  again,  for  a  few  moments,  within 
the  enclosure,  beneath  the  stars,  having  for  this  to  ask 
leave  of  passage  of  the  French  sentry.  The  moon  was 
not  visible  while  I  was  in  Kome,  so  that  I  had  not  to  ask 
French  leave  to  enter  by  moon-light  the  typical  monument 
of  Rome. 

Short  grass  covers  the  ground  once  red  with  the  blood 
of  gladiators,  and,  afterwards,  with  the  blood  of  saints. 
Verily,  old  Rome  was  cruel !  But  that  was  in  imperial 
times,  when  luxury  reigned,  bringing,  as  she  always  does, 
mercilessness  in  her  train.  The  glorious  days  of  Rome 
were  the  days  of  the  republic ;  and  I  truly  believe  that 
(whatever  may  be  the  case  in  other  lands,  in  our  dear  old 
England,  for  instance,  where  we  have  indeed  no  reason  to 
wish  for  a  change  in  the  form  of  government)  for  Rome, 
a  republic  would  be  the  most  likely  arrangement  to  bring 
glory  and  happiness  again.  Rome  had  to  expel  her  kings 
for  villany,  and  her  emperors  brought  her  to  the  dust. 
The  very  name  of  emperor  is  fatal  for  Rome.  The  whole 
of  the  Palatine  hill  (the  hill  of  Romulus)  is  covered  with 
the  ruins  of  the  palace  of  the  Caesars.  The  magnificent 
remains  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  are  not  far  distant.  It 
was  among  these  latter,  amid  the  roses  which  then  clam- 
bered luxuriantly  along  the  arches,  and  of  which  there  are 
still  some  relics  at  the  base  (the  place  having  been  ruth- 


"i  3 


THE    RUINS    OF    ROME. 


121 


lessly  despoiled,  when  I  visited  it,  for  some  English  fete), 
that  Shelley  wrote  his,  perhaps,  finest  poem,  certainly  his 
finest  of  any  length — "  Prometheus  Unbound." 

One  can  fancy  the  boy,  angelic  in  his  beauty,  forgetting 
for  the  while  "  the  whips  and  scorns  of  the  time,"  or  rather 
weaving  them,  even  if  unconsciously,  into  the  drama  of  his 
dream,  lying  beneath  that   sky  (earth  can  have  but  few 
like  it),  and  singing  his  sweet  melodies  alone.     Again, 
poor  boy !     What,  after  all,  are  the  Colosseum,  and  the 
Palace  of  the  Caesars,  to  such  wrecks  as  he  was  ?     Oh ! 
let  us  help  our  brethren  with  the  help  of  love  ere  they  go 
beyond  our  reaching  !    Dead  walls  may  be  left  to  moulder, 
but  living  souls  !     To  win  such  to  hope  and  to  salvation 
when  "ready  to  perish,"  there  is  no  wisdom  like  that. 
But  for  it  there  is  needed  not  only  truth,  but  love,    I  have 
but  pointed  to  some  of  the  ruins  of  Rome.     At  Florence 
it  was  useless  to  think  of  investigating  and  describing 
every  treasure  of  art.    But  at  Rome  every  fragment  has  a 
history.     The  city  herself  is  a  ruin.     The  houses  of  the 
Present  are  built  with  the  stones  of  the  Past.     And  while 
antiquarian  labour  has  there  a  vast  sphere  still  unexplored, 
I  would  rather  that  the  reader  should  join  me  in  love  for 
Rome  as  she  is,  and  in  prayer  that  she  may  rise  yet  again, 
''great,  glorious,  and  free"— free,  both  in  political  liberty 
and  in  the   freedom   of  true,    and   no   longer   spurious, 
Christianity. 


>w 


/ 


/ 


122 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    CITY    OF    ROME. 

♦'  And  Paul  dwelt  two  whole  years  in  his  own  hired  house,  and 
received  all  that  came  unto  him,  preaching  the  Kingdom  of  God  and 
teaching  the  things  which  concern  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  with  all 
confidence,  no  man  forbidding  him." 

Somewhere  in  the  old  city  was  this  house.     We  do  not 
know   the    exact    spot,    but    among    all    the    numberless 
associations  of  Rome  the  words  referred  to  supply  at  once 
the  most  sacred   and  the  most  interesting,   based  on  no 
mere  legendary  tradition,  but  on  the  sure  word  of  Scripture. 
The  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  trod  these  streets  (a  little 
below  us  truly),  for  assuredly  he  did  not  spend  those  two 
whole  years  without  air  and  exercise ;  but,  chained  to  his 
guard,  must  have  walked  in  the  sunshine  and  beneath  the 
sky  of  Rome.     The  quarter  of  his  ''  brethren,  his  kinsmen 
according  to  the  flesh,  who  are   Israelites,   of  whom,  as 
concerning  the  flesh,  Christ  came  " — the  world-renowned 
Ghetto — lies  not  far  from  the  base  of  the  Capitol  (to  the 
left  on  leaving  it),  whence  it  is  the  shortest  way  to  the 
modern  city.     Thus  it  is  not  much  distant  from  the  arch 
commemorating  the  commencement  of  their  latest  wander- 
ings.    In  this  Jews'  quarter,  as  nowhere  else  in  Rome, 
are  there  evidences  of  life  and  industry.     The  people  are  at 
work,  and  the  dream-like  silence  which  reigns  over  much  of 
the  rest  of  the  city  is  broken  here.     The  Ghetto  terminates 
on  one  side  in  the  Piazza  Navona,  the  noisy  market-place 


THE    CITY    OF    ROME. 


123 


garrulous  and  bustling,  though  scarcely  with  the  proofs  of 
steady  industry  seen  amongst  the  Jews.  And  on  the 
other  side  in  the  Piazza  delle  Lagrime  (so  called  from 
the  church  of  Santa  Agnese  delle  Lagrime),  the  suggestive 
name  of  the  square  close  to  which  is  the  Palazzo  Cenci, 
once  the  dwelling  of  Beatrice.  The  gates  of  the  Ghetto 
have  been  removed  of  late,  but  the  people,  whether  from 
necessity  or  from  habit,  chiefly  confine  themselves  to  their 
old  quarter.  "  Theirs  are  the  promises."  And  the 
evening  shadows  of  their  long  day  of  woe  are  already 
falling.     "  The  night  cometh,  and  also  the  morning." 

I  remember,  on  my  first  ramble,  directing  my  steps 
instinctively  to  the  ancient  part  of  Rome,  which,  happily, 
is  not  very  distant  from  any  point  of  the  city,  only  that 
the  seven  hills  (though  less  lofty  to  the  eye  than  I  antici- 
pated, having  doubtless  been  lowered  through  the  raising, 
by  time,  of  the  soil  at  their  base),  and  the  round  stones 
above  alluded  to,  lengthen  the  process, — and  I  shall  never 
forget  my  sensations  on  finding  myself  on  the  Hill  of  the 
Capitol.     I  entered  a  small  shop  on  the  ascent,  and  sat 
down   to   write  a  letter  to   a  friend.     It   was   early   in 
November,  but  a  sudden  storm  came  on,  darkening  the 
air,  while  the  thunder  rolled,  and  the  impetuous  rain  of 
Rome  came  down  in  torrents.     In  a  moment  the  streets 
were  flooded,  and  seemed  turned  into  the  pebbly  bed  of 
some   mountain  stream,    so  sudden  and  tremendous  are 
the  storms  of  Rome. 

The  streets  of  the   modern   city    are   chiefly   narrow, 
though  the  frequent  and  unexpected  appearance  of  some 


\ 


124 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


work  of  antiquity  (it  may  be  in  the  frieze  of  a  modern 
building),  and  the  glimpses  of  distant  edifices  of  world- 
wide fame,  relieve  them  of  meanness.     On  the  Quirinal  is 
the  palace  of  the  Pope,  said  to  be  much  grander  than  that 
of  the  Vatican,  where  he  now  resides.     But  as  it  was 
from  the  former  that  he  made  his  famous  escape  to  Naples 
in  1848  he  has   since  avoided  even  the  sight  of  it.     A 
walk  up  one  of  the  steep  sides  of  the  Quirinal  brought  me 
one  afternoon  to  the  Via  delle  quattro  Fontane,  where  the 
nieces   of  my  dear  old  friend,  Filippo  Pistrucci,  pursue 
their  artistic  profession  of  the  cutting  of  cameos,  for  which 
Rome  is  so  celebrated.     It  may  not  be  generally  known 
that  the  spirited  design  of  St.  George  slaying  the  dragon 
on  our  English  sovereigns  of  the  reign  of  George  III. 
was  the  work  of  their  father.     So  they  inherit  talent  in 
that  line.     Alas  !  they  are  deeds  of  ancient  heroism  that 
are  commemorated  in  these  intaglie.     The  very  palaces  of 
modern  Rome,  wherein  reside  an  effete  race  of  so-called 
princes,  whose  nobility  of  rank  is  proved  chiefly  by  their 
indolence  and  cowardice,  are  constructed  with  the  stones 
of  the  past.     Story,  in  his  Roba  di  Roma,  gives  a  long 
list    of   buildings    of  old    renown,    with   the    spoils    of 
which  the  Farnese  palace,  the  residence  of  the  ex-royal 
family   of  Naples,   was   compiled;    amongst   others,  the 
Colosseum,  the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  the  theatre  of  Mar- 
cellus,  and  the  temple  of  Antoninus  and  Faustina.     This 
palace  stands  in  or  near  the  Piazza  Colonna. 

On   leaving   the  Vincolo   dei  Greci,    I   went   for   the 
remaining  days  of  my  stay  to  an  hotel  in  the  Via  di 


THE    CITY    OF    ROME. 


125 


Pietra,  kept  by  a  kind  old  man  of  the  name  of  Cesari, 
who  proved  to  have  known,  in  his  youth,  my  friend  Filippo 
Pistrucci,  and  to  have  heard  him  improvise  in  the  hall  near 
the  Fountain  of  Trevi.     I  suppose  that  is  the  hall  in  which 
were  exhibited,  when  I  was  in  Rome,  a  series  of  illustra- 
tions of  the  Divina  Commedia  which  I  had  seen  before  in 
London.     The  paintings  are  large  and  fine,  especially  in 
the  figures  of  Virgil  and  of  the  sad  but  heroic  poet  himself. 
Was  Dante  ever  in   Rome?     I  am  not  sure  whether  his 
works  decide  that  question.     If  he  never  was,  the  intellec- 
tual state  of  that  city  must  have  been  low ;  the  Popes 
must  have  effected  much  of  their  depressing  work  even  at 
that  time,  if  no  Roman  was  found  like  Delia  Scala  of 
Verona,  or   Carrara  of  Padua,  to  lighten  the  exile   of 
Italy's  greatest  child.     And  was  Petrarch  crowned  at  the 
Capitol,  and  were  there  no  laurels  there  for  the  brow  of 
the  greater  Dante  ?  *     However,  here  he  was  now  in  Rome 
at  last ;  his  poems  reflected  outwardly  in  these  pictures, 
faithful  as  ever  in  their  sublime  allegory  to  the  sorrow 
and  the  mystery  of  life  and  of  humanity.     Is  it  remembered 
that  this  Dante  ends  his  mighty  poem,  perhaps  the  saddest 
ever  written,  by  striking  the  chord  of  Hope  ?     He  tells  us 

that  he  saw 

•<In  one  volume,  clasped  ofLovey 

All  that  the  universe  contains." 
The  Fountain  of  Trevi,  near  by,  with  its  clear  waters 

*  If  as  is  probable,  political  causes,  the  dissensions  between  the 
Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  were  the  secret,  the  above  reflections  are 
by  no  means  invalidated. 


126 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


THE    CITY    OF    ROME. 


127 


falling  ceaselessly  over  their  triple  stage  of  rock,  made  a 
fitting  accompaniment,  Dantesque  in  its  terza-rima,  to 
the  illustrative  paintings. 

The  statue  of  Pompey,  at  whose  base  Cfcsar  fell,  is 
now  in  the  Palazzo  Spada.  I  stood  before  it  one  evening, 
and  through  the  dim  light  pictured  it  as  it  "  ran  blood  "  in 
the  Capitol  on  that  morning  of  the  ides  of  March. 

♦'  Thou  dread  statue ! 
Thou  who  beheldest  'mid  the  assassins'  din 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Casar  lie, 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity."— C/i«7(Ze  Harold. 

If  the  face  be  a  portrait,  Pompey's  beauty  must  have 
been  of  colour  and  complexion,  and  not  of  feature  or 
expression.  Very  different  is  this  from  the  grand  melan- 
choly head  of  Julius. 

On  the  5th  of  November,  when,  as  I  thought,  some 
passive  representatives  of  Guy  Fawkos  were,  perhaps, 
looming  through  the  golden  haze  of  a  London  fog,  I 
stood  on  the  steps  of  St.  John  Lateran,  overlooking  the 
Campagna.  The  sun-light  poured  down  in  what  to  us 
would  be  summer  wamith ;  the  vast  encircling  plains  were 
bounded  on  one  side  by  the  purple  hills  of  Albano,  and 
crossed  here  and  there  by  the  lines  of  some  aqueduct,  now 
a  channel  for  the  stream  of  thought,  as  they  stretched 
seemingly  to  the  horizon,  or  were  broken  off  as  by  some 
abrupt  stroke  of  circumstance.  What  a  scene  it  was  ! 
How  fair  in  its  beauty  !  How  terrible  in  its  significance  ! 
For  I  turned  and  entered  the  pillared  church,  where,  on 
his  installation,   the   Pope   sits    "  as    God."     All   there 


around  was  cold— splendid  indeed— costly—even  priceless 
as  to  the  world's  estimate,  for  all  in  that  church  is  pure 
gold  and  solid  marble.  But  cold— cold— striking  to  the 
very  heart,  as  to  me  it  always  is  with  everything  belong- 
ing to  the  repressive  system  of  Romanism,  which,  to  my 
mind,  is  indeed  outwardly  as  an  adorned  and  fretted 
sepulchre,  with  all  the  chill  of  the  sepulchre  within.  I 
am  always  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  what  people  mean  by 
talking  of  the  warmth  of  Romish  ceremonial.  Gorgeous- 
ness  granted  ;  but  this  is  no  more  warmth  than  jewels  are 
sun-light.  The  contrast  between  the  truth  of  God  with 
its  vivifying  and  transforming  power,  and  the  "will- 
worship"  and  "voluntary  humility"  of  the  Papal  system, 
is  but  faintly  typified  by  the  change  from  the  warmth  and 
light  of  the  landscape  outside  to  the  petrifying  chill  of 
that  church  of  marble. 

Near  by  is  the  Sacra  Scala,  which  I  saw  devotees 
on  that  day  ascending  on  their  knees.  But  to  this  I 
defer  full  reference.  I  went  on  along  the  Appian  Way  as 
far  as  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  a  round  fortress-like 
tower,  and  which,  doubtless,  was  foraierly  so  used.  Who- 
ever she  was,  she  has  been  honoured  in  her  monument. 
This  tomb  forms  a  sort  of  boundary  of  Rome  on  the 
Via  Appia,  and  the  Catacombs,  themselves  vast  ranges  of 
tombs,  stretch  away  beneath. 

"  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death :  "* 
everywhere  really,  but  at  Rome  most  evidently.     Utterly 

*  By  the  way,  are  we  not  indebted  to  some  old  Roman  for  those 
oft-quoted  words,  sometimes  erroneously  supposed  to  be  a  citation 
from  Scripture  ? 


128 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


careless  merriment  one  would  suppose  impossible  here  to 
the  most  callous ;    and  yet,  draping  and  veiling,  if  not 
concealing  these  solemn  scenes,  there  is  a  hand  throwing 
likewise  a  spell  on  the  beholders,  too  powerful,  alas,  with 
the   many.     I  mean  the  climate — the  delicious,   dream- 
inspiring,  bewitching  climate !      Perhaps   this  is  Italy's 
*'  dono  infelice  " — her  *'  fatal  gift."     And  yet  did  not  the 
old  Romans  live  here,  and  was  nature  harsher  to  them  ? 
This  may  be,  and  is  a  question,  but  yet  the  climate  cannot 
have  changed  very  considerably.    No ;  however  enervating 
the  atmosphere  of  Rome  may  be,  we  must  seek  for  the 
cause  of  the  depression  of  her  sons  in  something  deeper 
than   the   outward    elements.      Delicious,   however,   the 
atmosphere  is.     It  was   November,  as  I  said,  and  we  at 
home   were    then    struggling   with   the   asperities  of   a 
northern  winter ;    but  here  the  sky  was  undimmed  in  its 
deep,  pure  blue — the  oranges  hung  on  the  trees  against 
that   background   of   dark  azure — and  the  lizards  were 
basking   in   the   sun  amid  the  flowered  verdure  of  the 
hedges.    Every  breath  was  balm;  every  sight  was  beauty. 
It  is  hard  amid  such  scenes  to  remember  the  dread  facts 
of  sin,  and  death,  and   misery ;    hard,   and   yet  doubly 
terrible.     The  One  Sun,  however,  that  can  shed  true  light 
on  life,  as  on  immortality,  has  risen  ^'  with  healing  in  His 
wings;"    and  there   need   be   no   uncheered   sorrow,    no 
triumphant  sin,  and  no  hopeless  death  in  beautiful  Italy 
any  more  than  beneath  the  "  sullen  skies  "  of  our  own 
Old  England. 


THE    CATACOMBS    AND    THE    CAMPAGNA. 


129 


CHAPTER  XXL 


THE    CATACOMBS    AND    THE    CAMPAGNA. 

♦'  In  the  Garden  a  Sepulchre." 

Having  obtained  an  order  from  the  Cardinal-Vicar,  I 
went,  on  the  7th  of  November,  to  the  Catacombs  of  San 
Sebastiano.  I  am  not  sure  that  these  are  the  Catacombs, 
most  famous  for  their  records,  for  I  found  afterwards  that 
there  are  others,  to  which  the  entrance  is  from  the  Church 
of  San  Paolo.  However,  it  was  the  Catacombs  of  San 
Sebastiano  which  I  visited.  I  passed  through  a  door, 
which  announced  that  by  it  was  the  way  to  the  Catacombs, 
into  a  vineyard,  where  were  some  young  peasants  engaged 
at  work.  The  father  of  one  of  them  came  forward  and 
showed  me  the  entrance  downwards,  himself  preceding  me 
as  my  guide.  He  told  me  he  was  well  known  to  travellers, 
by  his  Christian  name  of  Valentino.  It  seemed  as  if  that 
smiling  vineyard  opened  and  disclosed  a  flight  of  steps 
descending  downwards  into  the  darkness.  In  a  moment 
that  unclouded  sky  and  prodigal  vegetation  were  lost  from 
sight,  and  I  was  groping  my  way  along,  lighted  by  the 
taper  of  my  guide  and  my  own.     I  observed  on  one  tomb 


i 


130 


ITALY    AND    IIER    CAPITAL. 


the  fish  expelling  Jonah,  the  well-known  symbol  of  the 
resurrection,  but  with  that  exception  did  not  see  the  in- 
scriptions and  devices  I  expected.  This  may  be  accounted 
for  by  the  fact,  that  most  of  the  entablatures  that  were 
removeable  have  been  removed  to  the  Vatican.  Alas  ! 
the  Vatican  thus  dominates  not  only  over  the  modern 
city,  but  even  over  these  records  of  the  early  Christians, 
who  wandered  in  these  "  dens  and  caves  of  the  earth," 
and  "  of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy."  Happily  they 
are  now  themselves  beyond  all  tyranny,  otherwise  the 
Catacombs  would  have  again  to  be  their  refuge,  not  from 
Pagan,  but  from  Papal  Kome. 

And  this  Campagna,  which  spreads  a  covering  of  smiles 
over  these  lines  of  tombs,  how  wonderful  it  is  !     It  recalls 
the  words,  "  He  carried  me  away  in  the  spirit  into  the 
wilderness;'  and  makes  it  evident  that  this  is  where  the 
prophet  saw  the    "woman  riding   on   a  scarlet-coloured 
beast,  full  of  names  of  blasphemy."     That  woman,  let  me 
once  more  repeat,  is  not  Rome  the  city,  but  Rome  the 
system.     But  since  that  system  has  had  here   "a  local 
habitation,"  so  John,  in  the  vision,  saw  her  here  "  in  the 
wilderness,"  a  wilderness  not  of  rough  stones,  not  of  arid 
sands,  not  of  tangled  woods,  but  of  smiling  vineyards,  of 
fair  weeds  and  flowers,  of  blue  distances,  and  prospects  as 
of  Paradise ;   silent,  however,  ominous  and  awful. 

The  lovely  Italian  oxen  that  drag  across  it  slowly  some 
cumbrous  piece  of  husbandry,  seem,  in  the  languid  patience 
of  their  large  soft  eyes,  to  express  the  melancholy  of  the 
scene  of — 


\ 


i 


I 

i 


THE    CATACOMBS    AND    THE    CAMPAGNA. 


131 


"  That  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere ; 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace. 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air, 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease." 

llohert  Browning. 

Joy  and  peace,  to  those  ivlio  possess  them,  the  distance 
may  express  in  its  boundlessness.  But  this  is  Rome's 
valley  of  Jehoshaphat,  her  "  place  of  tombs." 

The  tomb  of  the  Scipios  is  not  far  from  the  Porta  San 
Sebastiano,  and,  therefore,  is  not  very  distant  from  these 
catacombs.     A  door  in  the  wall  introduces  you  to  this 
tomb  also,  and  you  soon  find  yourself  passing  from  a 
small  garden "  of  roses  into  a  high   dark   gallery.     The 
actual  tomb  enclosing  the  remains  of  one  or  more  of  the 
Scipios  has,  in  this  case  also,  been  removed  to  the  Vatican. 
The  Campagna  is  just  a  wide  enclosure  for  the  vast  tomb 
of   Rome,  wherein,  both   literally    and   figuratively,  the 
ancient  city  is  buried,  and,  with  her,  a  whole  old  worUi. 
Still  arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet,  the  woman  sits  on, 
death  in  her  face,  yet  robed  as  for  perpetual  rule.     She 
sits,  as  sits  Napoleon  I.  in  that  wonderful  picture  in  the 
Invalides,  where  the  face  is  the  face  of  a  corpse,  but  where 
the  mien  exacts,  as  for  evermore,  unquestioning  submis- 
sion, at  once  authoritative  and  ghastly — 

"  With  diadem  and  sceptre  high  advanced, 
Only  supreme  in  misery." 

So  now  sits  Papal  Rome,  "  drunken  with  the  blood  of 
the  saints,"  preparing  for  the  last  short  conflict,  which 

K  2 


132 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


will    commence    with    her   triumphs,   and    end   with    her 

destruction. 

Throned  on  her  seven  hills  in  the  wilderness,*  * 
Aged,  but  unrepentant,  sits  the  one 
The  Seer  beheld  ;  but  now,  in  her  distress, 
Amid  her  blasphemies  is  heard  a  moan. 

Leaning  her  weary  head  upon  her  hand, 
The  same  in  heart  as  in  her  days  of  fame. 
She  ponders  one  more  effort  to  withstand 
Her  olden  foes — the  followers  of  the  Lamb. 

E.  S.  G  S. 


ROME    SEEN    FROM    ST.    TETER's. 


133 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

ROME    SEEN    FROM    ST.    PETER's. 

"  The  hoary  falsehood  that  o'ershadows  Rome."— 

T.  W.  Dalhy. 

St.  Peter's  is  situated  in  the  Trastevere,  that  is,  the  part 
of  the  city  answering  to  the  Southwark  of  London,  and 
the  quarter  whose  inhabitants  pride  themselves,  whether 
with  or  without  reason,  on  descent  from  the  ancient 
Romans.  The  Trasteverini  are  mostly  a  fine  race  physi- 
cally, and  in  character  also,  but  for  a  sort  of  Corsican 
vendetta  which  prevails  among  them.  From  the  English 
quarter  of  Rome  St.  Peter's  is  reached  by  crossing  the 
Ponte  San  Angelo,  at  the  end  of  which  is  the  castle  of  that 
name,  otherwise  known  as  the  tomb  of  Adrian.  A  straight 
line  drawn  transversely  across  the  city,  from  the  Colosseum 
on  one  side,  would  pass  through  the  tomb  of  Adrian  on 

the  other. 

In  that  castle  of  San  Angelo  how  many  have  languished ! 
There  *  Guido  painted  that  sweet  face  of  Beatrice,  ere  she 
left  her  cell  for  the  scaffold ;  and  on  that  bridge,  with  its 
figures,  which,  however  inferior  in  art,  show  finely  against 
the  deep  blue  sky,  lay  her  body,  as  if  in  sleep,  undistorted 
by  the  stroke  which  had  parted  the  fair  head  from  the 

*  According  to  some  ;  while  others  declare  that  he  painted  it  from 
a  transient  glimpse  of  her  as  she  passed  to  execution. 


134 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


neck,  as  beautifully  depicted  in  the  painting  by  the 
Spaniard  Lorenzo  Vales,  exhibited  at  Dublin  in  1865.  The 
Tiber  rolls  on  below,  nearly,  but  to  my  eye  not  quite,  as 
yellow  as  the  Arno.  It  winds  so  as  to  be  rightly  charac- 
terized by  Shakespeare's  epithet,  correct  and  faithful  as 
every  epithet  of  his,  "  the  concave  Tiber."  From  a  wide, 
open  square,  you  ascend  the  many  steps  of  the  entrance  to 
St.  Peter's.  Pushing  aside  the  heavy  door  rather  than 
curtain  of  leather,  you  find  yourself  within  that  building, 
which  has  been  so  often  described,  that  to  most  it  seems 
well  known  and  familiar.  It  is  a  world  of  building,  "  glit- 
tering with  gold,"  and  offering  some  marvel  in  the  mosaic 
copy  of  a  celebrated  painting,  or  a  tomb  of  wondrous 
workmanship,  at  every  step ;  and  yet,  to  my  feeling,  and 
even  to  my  senses,  cold  and  terrible.  I  had  to  walk  into 
the  sacristy  to  obtain  an  order  for  the  ascent  to  the  dome. 
My  dress  proclaimed  my  Garibaldian  sympathies,  and  I 
was  also,  to  their  accustomed  eyes,  plainly  English.  They 
seemed  inclined  to  oppose  my  request  on  the  ground  of  the 
time,  which  was  rather  beyond  that  specified  for  admission, 
but  I  persisted,  as  I  knew  some  others  had  already  mounted, 
and  had  not  yet  descended,  and  as  it  was  my  last  morning 
in  Rome.  So  I  obtained  the  order,  and  began  to  mount. 
As  this  is,  I  believe,  the  highest  building  in  the  world, 
although,  as  has  often  been  remarked,  not  so  apparently 
from  the  outside,  the  ascent  seemed  endless.  At  length 
the  summit  was  attained,  and  the  diminished  city  lay 
below.  In  order  to  behold  the  prospect  in  any  detail,  it 
must  be  surveyed  from  the  gallery  encircling  the  base  of 


ROME    SEEN    FROM    ST.    PETER  S. 


135 


the  dome.     Then  the  picture  becomes  intelligible.     The 
eye  instinctively  overlooks  the  modern  city,  of  which  it  is 
nevertheless  aware,  with  its  groups  so  unlike  those  seen 
elsewhere,  consisting,  as  they  mostly  do,  of  bare-headed 
friars  and  black-stoled  priests,  and  rests  upon  that  quarter 
to  the  south-east,    where  is  the  graceful    ellipse  of   the 
Colosseum,   close  by  the  tower  of  the  Capitol,  the  two 
being  approximated  to  each  other  by  your  distance  from 
both.     Yes ;  there  is  ancient  Rome — the  Rome  of  Julius 
and  of   Tully,  the   Rome  of   Regulus    and  the  Gracchi. 
Modern  Rome  is  as  a  still-born  child  to  that  mighty  mother. 
The  Pontc  Sublicio  (Pons  Sublicius),  said  to  be  the  bridge 
which  Horatius  Codes  kept  against  the  foreign  invader 
who  was  seeking  to  force  back  upon  Rome  a  tyranny  she 
had  rejected,  is  gone  now.     You  see  its  foundation  at  low 
tide  in  the  Tiber,  not  far  from  the  Capitol.     The  original 
wooden  bridge  had  been  rebuilt   with  an  admixture   of 
iron.,  but  this  iron  was  taken  by  the  French  for  cannon- 
balls,  I  believe,  in  1849.    0  Rome !  thou  art  doing  some- 
thing else  now  than  repulsing  the   stranger.     Thou   art 
cherishing  the  viper  which  has  stung  thee  already,  and 
which,  it  is  to  be  feared,  will  sting  thee  more  sharply  yet. 
Well  may  the  bridge  be  gone,  for  where  is  now  the  Codes 
who  would  guard  it  against  the  foe  ?     There  is  another 
bridge  of  which  only  the  half  remains,  and  which  is  called 
the  Ponte  Rotto.     At  its  corner  stands  the  house  of  Cola 
di  Rienzi.     This,  however,  is  a  digression  from  Rome  as 
viewed  from  St.  Peter's.     Beyond  the  ruins  stretches  the 
Campagna,  of  which,  from  this  height,  a  wide  expanse  is 


136 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


visible.  This  level  belt  encloses  Kome ;  but  to  the  back  of 
St.  Peter's,  the  features  of  the  scene  are  sterner  and  more 
rugged. 

It  is  a  fair  prospect  from  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  but 
yet  it  is  sadly  suggestive  that  this  structure,  ''  decked  with 
gold  and  precious  stones  and  pearls,"  like  the  woman  who 
symbolized  to  the  prophet  the  system  which  has  here  its 
seat,  should  thus  command  the  prostrate  city.  Were  the 
truth  here  proclaimed,  there  would  be  no  cause  for  sighing, 
but,  alas !  the  fane  echoes  to  the  mummeries  of  falsehood, 
even  as  it  was  built  with  the  fruits  of  falsehood  and 
corruption.  Still  ''the  stone  crieth  out  of  the  wall,  and 
the  beam  out  of  the  timber  doth  answer  it."  The  boxes 
of  the  Confessional,  which  occupy  a  prominent  position  in 
the  inside,  are  inscribed  with  the  names  of  all  civilised 
nations — "  Pro-Anglica  lingua,"  if  I  mistake  not,  leading 
the  way  on  one  side.  England  will  play  at  Romanism, 
and  will  have  to  suffer  severely  for  the  pastime. 

But  let  us  look  round  once  more.  In  the  broad  piazza 
below  is  an  obelisk  of  stone,  inscribed  with  Egyptian 
hieroglyphics ;  not,  I  believe,  the  companion  of  that  in  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  Paris,  for  that,  if  I  mistake  not,  is 
in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo.  On  each  side  of  this  obelisk 
is  a  fountain,  casting  its  clear  waters  into  the  sunlight, 
and  descending  in  all  rainbow  hues.  Then,  crossing  the 
somewhat  busy  streets  of  the  Borgo,  we  are  stayed  by  the 
prison  tomb  of  San  Angelo,  and  then  follow  the  course  of 
the  yellow  Tiber,  which  leads  us  to  the  broken  line  of  the 
Ponte  Rotto  by  the  ancient  city.     The  eye  has  met  with 


ROME    SEEN    FROM    ST.    PETER  S. 


137 


: 


I 


many  claimants  for  attention  on  its  way,  to  wit,  principally, 
the  other  churches,  numerous  as  the  days  of  the  year. 
But,  as  in  the  vision  of  Memory  and  Love,  the  old 
triumphs  over  the  new,  the  distant  over  the  near,  and  our 
last  look,  ere  we  turn  to  go,  rests  on  the  tower  of  the 
Capitol  and  the  broken  arches  of  the  Colosseum. 

After  the  long,  long  descent  is  over,  we  stop  a  moment 
in  the  centre  of  the  square  near  the  obelisk,  attracted  by 
something  at  our  feet — a  wild  female  head  in  mosaic  (is 
it  meant  for  the  Gorgon  Medusa,  or  the  wife  of  ^olus,  if 
he  had  one  ?),  in  the  centre  of  a  large  circle  inscribed 
with  the  points  of  the  compass  and  the  names  of  the  winds. 
There  is  something  suggestive  of  magic  in  this  charmed 
circle  and  its  mystic  devices  ;  and  the  question  arises, 
what  has  Romanism  meant  by  introducing  it  before  her 
chief  cathedral  ?  Is  it  a  symbolic  claim  to  her  usurped 
title  of  Catholic  ?     Probably. 

But  to  me  it  gives  rise  to  the  prayer,  0  Thou  Spirit  of 
the  living  God,  Who  blowest  like  the  wind,  bringing  life 
and  health  and  blessedness,  come  Thou  upon  this  city 
spiritually  dead  !  There  are  churches  here  for  worship, 
but  it  is  as  the  pictured  worship  of  the  dead ;  and  there 
are  throngs  of  worshippers,  but  they  are  spiritually  (save 
a  remnant,  who,  through  all  disguises,  know  their  Father, 
and  "worship  Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth")  as  phantoms 
of  the  dead.  "  Come  from  the  four  winds,  O  breath,  and 
breathe  upon  these  slain,  that  they  may  live." 


138 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


CHAPTER  XXllI. 

THE     SISTINE     CUAPEL. 

The  Master- Painter's  power  *  * 
Has  from  this  silent  wall 
From  centuries  long  past  unto  this  hour 
Spoken  its  tale  to  all. 

And  yet.  most  wondrously, 
Rome's  grand  mistake  is  here — 
The  Name  of  Jesus  she  has  made  to  be 
FuU,  not  of  love,  but  fear. 

The  central  point  is  wrong — 
His  head  is  set  awry. 
Sure  never  yet  did  Art,  by  brush  or  song, 
Utter  so  strange  a  lie. 

Here,  from  His  awful  frown, 
The  wretched  victims  flee ; 
His  Eye's  avenging  lightning  casts  them  down, 
Smiting  them  witheringly. 

Believe  no  human  voice 
That  calls  Him  hard  or  stern. 
Another  lesson  shall  your  hearts  rejoice. 
If  of  Himself  ye  learn. 

If  but  one  soul  is  lost. 
It  is  not  by  His  will ; 
Who  died  to  save  unto  the  uttermost. 
And  Who  so  saveth  still. 

He  waiteth  not  to  curse. 
But  to  be  gracious.     This 
Believe  and  live.     In  all  the  universe 

There  is  no  love  like  His. — E.  S.  G.  S. 


THE    SISTINE    CHAPEL. 


139 


The  palace  and  galleries  of  the  Vatican  occupy  the 
wing  leading  from  St.  Peter's,  and  bounding  the  piazza  on 
one  side,  and  several  small  chapels — amongst  others  the 
Sistine — the  wing  on  the  other.  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
discovering  this  chapel,  but  at  length  succeeded.  It  is, 
as  need  not  be  said,  famous  for  the  large  painting  of  the 
last  judgment,  by  Michael  Angelo.  The  ceiling,  divided 
into  small  compartments,  is  enriched  with  frescoes  by  the 
same  great  master,  illustrating  the  creation ;  grand,  many 
of  them,  as  affording  special  scope  for  his  peculiar  powers, 
and  yet  many  of  them  distressing,  as  contravening  the 
warning  of  Deut.  iv.  15 — "  Take  good  heed  to  yourselves, 
for  ye  saw  no  manner  of  similitude  in  the  day  that  the 
Lord  spake  with  you."  Frescoes  by  Raphael  and  other 
masters  adorn  the  side  walls.  But  the  "  Last  Judgment" 
remains  the  chief  feature  of  the  chapel,  occupying,  as  it 
does,  the  whole  wall  opposite  the  entrance.  As  the  lines 
heading  this  chapter  express,  it  was  the  false  position  of 
the  Judge,  and  therefore  the  false  character  assigned  to 
Him,  which  absorbed  my  attention.  This  false  position  is 
not  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  Michael  Angelo, 
excelling  in  the  terrible,  might  on  that  account  have 
chosen  to  give  an  aspect  of  terror  to  the  picture.  No ;  it 
is  but  the  repetition  of  the  verdict  of  Romanism,  always 
and  everywhere  on  the  character  of  Jesus.  Everywhere 
and  always,  she  says  to  Him,  "  Lord,  I  knew  Thee,  that 
Thou  art  a  hard  man."  "  To  call  Him  hard  !  Sure  it  is 
the  vilest  slander  ever  breathed."  In  consequence,  the 
eye  of  the  Romanist  is  directed  from  Jesus  to  His  earthly 


140 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


THE    SI8TINE    CHAPEL. 


141 


mother,  and  her  attendant  crowd  of  saints.     The  earlier 
painters,  with  some  few  exceptions,  did  not  fall  into  this 
grand    error.      Giotto's    paintings    are   sermons   on   the 
mingled  majesty  and  tenderness  of  Him  Whose  Name  was 
and  is  called  Jesus  ;  and  Fra  Angelico,  though  delighting 
in  representations  of  saints  and  angels,  yet  does  not  dero- 
gate from  the  character  of  the  angels'  Lord.     If  I  mistake 
not,  Michael  Angelo  is  more  in  the  right  in  his  poetry 
than  in  his  painting;   but  the  great  lie,   of  which  this 
picture  is  perhaps  the  most  prominent  example,  had  be- 
come in  his  days  an  accepted  article  of  the  perverted  creed 
of  Popery,  and  in  painting  for  a  Pope  he  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously reflected  it.     Those  were  the  days  of  the  collection 
of  Peter's  pence  for  the  erection  of  the  fane  whose  out- 
ward beauty  but  thinly  disguises  the  inner  ugliness  of  the 
system  it  represents,  as  the  meretricious  attractions  of  the 
'*  woman  arrayed  in  purple  and  scarlet  colour,  and  decked 
with  gold,  and  precious  stones,  and  pearls,"  left  her  no 
less,  but  the  rather  the  "  mother  of  the  abominations  of 
the  earth."     And  they  were  the  days  when  the  unblushing 
bravado  of  falsehood  led  to  the  championship  of  truth, 
which  resulted  in  the  blessed  Reformation.     It  is  well 
when  vice  shows  herself  as  she  really  is,  and  when  the 
very   effrontery    of    falsehood    challenges    investigation. 
Euphemism  is  perhaps  more  dangerous  than  plain  though 
revolting  language;    and  error   is   more   to  be   dreaded 
when  she  speaks  as  a  lamb,  than  when  she  thunders  as 

a  lion. 

That  w^as  a  strange  expression  of  a  wandering  moment 


of  one  who  loved  his  Saviour,*  "  Thou  dost  soothe  he 
heart,  thou  church  of  Kome."  How  can  she  soothe  the 
heart  when  her  influence  all  tends  to  alienate  fron.  Him 
Who  made  it,  and  to  Whom  we  may  say  not  only,  ihou 
hast  the  words  of  eternal  life,"  but  also,  '  Thou,  the  Friend 
of  sinners.  Thou  only  hast  the  words  of  mercy,  of  sym- 

pathy,  of  love.' 

*  Keble. 


• 


142 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


CHxVPTEK  XXIV. 


LA    SACllA    SCALA. 

«•  Look  unto  Me  and  be  ye  saved  all  ye  ends  of  the  earth." 

Upon  their  knees  I  saw  them  climbing  slow  *  * 
The  stairs  whence  Luther,  hearing  in  his  soul 
The  voice  Divine,  as  he  was  mounting  so, 
Leapt  like  the  lame  man  suddenly  made  whole. 

And  I  would  fain  have  bid  them  look  indeed,— 
Look  with  their  hearts,  on  Him  on  Whom  their  eyes 
Were  fixed  ;  Who,  in  His  pain  for  human  need, 
Bore  on  the  cross  their  weight  of  miseries. 

Did  He  not  bear  it  then,  and  bear  away  ? 
Did  He  not  die  exclaiming  "  It  is  done  "  ? 
What  mean  ye,  that  ye  hang  your  heads  this  day, 
As  though  He  were  not  victor  on  His  throne  ? 

Some  say  ye  thus  would  pay  Him  honour  due. 
Most  worthy  of  all  honour.     Is  it  so  ? 
Sure  ye  mistake  His  heart,  W^ho,  loving  you, 
Not  to  receive  left  heaven,  but  to  bestow. 

How  shall  the  sons  of  Adam  Jesus  praise  ? 
How  shall  the  ckowning  'mid  the  waves'  alarm 
Honour  the  Friend  whose  hand  is  stretched  to  raise  ? 
They  honour  best  who  grasp  the  rescuing  arm. 

And  thus  by  sinners  stands  the  Friend  Divine. 
But  men  will  chant  sweet  anthems,  lie  in  dust, 
Bring  choicest  offerings  to  the  temple-shrine  ; 
Alas !  few  bring  the  one  thing  precious— ^ruj^ 


143 


LA    SACIIA    SCALA. 

At  Rome  they  climb  the  stair-case,  as  I  said, 
Perchance  with  toil,  but  yet  most  gracefully ; 
And,  verily,  the  same  ascent  is  made 
By  countless  thousands  'neath  our  England's  sky. 

The  incense,  and  the  banners,  and  the  chant, 
The  gorgeous  vestments,  and  the  blossoms  rare 
(The  heart  still  aching  with  a  nameless  want), 
Are  but  the  graceful  climbing  of  the  stair. 

Ye  say  ye  look  upon  the  Cross.     He  saith 

Who  suffered,  because  He  your  joy  desired, 

"  Look,  and  be  saved:'    "  The  just  shall  live  by  faith." 

Think  ye  that  Jesus  died  to  be  admu-ed  ?— E.  S.  G.  S. 

On   that  bright   morning  of  our  Guy   Fawkes'   day,   1 
crossed  the  road  lying  between  the  church  of  St.  John 
Lateran,*  and  a  building  to  the  right,  as  you  leave,  be- 
longing to  a  monastery,  or  college  of  some  kind.     In  this 
building  is  what  is  called   Pilate's  staircase,  a  flight  of 
marble  steps  (but,  I  believe,  covered  with  wood,  which  is 
renewed  when  needed),  said  to  have  been  brought  from  the 
house  of  Pilate  at  Jerusalem,  and,  consequently,  to  be  the 
same  which  our  Lord  descended  when  that  Roman  governor 
had  delivered  Him  up  to  be  crucified.     These  stairs  Luther 
was  mounting  when  arrested,  as  alluded  to  above,  by  the 
words  recurring  to  his  mind  with  irresistible  force,  "  The 

just  shall  live  by  faith." 

I  had  not  thought  to  have  this  event  in  his  life  so 
vividly  pictured.  As  I  stood  by  the  door  1  saw  some, 
not  many,  certainly,  but  still  a  few,  ascending  on  their 

*  The  name  Lateran  is  derived  from  that  of  the  Roman  on  the 
site  of  whose  house  the  church  was  built  by  Constantine. 


144 


ITALY  AND  HER  CAPITAL. 


LA  SACRA  SCALA. 


145 


knees.  A  lady,  elegantly  dressed,  was  performing  this 
undoubtedly  difficult  operation  with  a  grace  which  was 
suggestive  of  frequent  practice.  Farther  to  the  side  (for 
the  staircase  is  a  wide  one),  a  peasant,  of  brigand-like 
aspect,  was  ascending,  less  gracefully  than  the  lady,  yet 
as  if  not  altogether  unaccustomed  to  the  exercise. 

It  was  a  saddening  sight,  and  I  could  scarcely  refrain 
from  expostulation.     That  man's  face  was  something  of  a 
brigand's.     And  his  life,  was  it  a  brigand's  also?     Very 
possibly.     At  least  there  would  be  nothing  in  the  fact 
incompatible  with  his  present  occupation.     And  that  lady  ? 
Was  the  ascent  to  her  a  penance  or  a  meritorious  work, 
purchasing  some  time  of  escape  from  purgatory,  or  of 
enjoyment  of  paradise  ?     The  eyes  of  the  climbers  were 
fixed,  as  has  been  said,  on  a  large  picture  of  the  Crucifixion 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs.     This  was  according  to   the 
constant   practice    of    Romanism,   which    systematically, 
while  it  directs  the  outward  sight  to  the   sufferings  of 
Jesus,  turns  away  from  them  the  inward  vision,   so  at 
least  as  to  hinder  the  conclusion  that  the   Sufferer  *'  hath 
given  us  rest  by  His  sighing,   and  life  by   His  death." 
I  mentioned  what  I  had  seen  to  Cesari,  the  proprietor  of 
the  hotel  in  the  Via  di  Pietra,  and  the  melancholy  it  had 
produced  in  me.     ''  They  do  not  think  there  is  any  merit 
in   it,"   he   replied.      **  They    only   consider   themselves 
unworthy  to  ascend  the  stairs  which  Jesus  trod  otherwise 
than  on  their   knees."     Of  course,   with  this   idea   the 
question  suggests  itself  why  those  few  in  particular  should 
be   mounting   the   stairs.      Besides,    we    remember    the 


4 


account  given  by  Luther  of  the  feelings  which  led  him  to 
take  the  long  journey  to  Rome,  partly  with  this  meritorious 
work  in  view.  Yes,  it  belongs  not  only  to  the  "  will 
worship  "  and  "voluntary  humility"  of  Romanism,  but  also 
to  her  self- invented  scheme  of  human  merit.  Were  the 
motive,  indeed,  simply  that  of  doing  honour  to  the  Cruci- 
fied One,  it  would  involve  a  gross  misconception  of  the 
character  of  Him,  "  Whose  service  is  perfect  freedom." 
But  the  error  goes  deeper  still.  Why  do  the  votaries  of 
the  cruel  idols  of  India  or  Ceylon  endure  their  self-inflicted 
tortures  ?  They  will  tell  you  that  they  believe  them  to  be 
pleasing  to  their  gods.  The  practical  heathenism  of  the 
Sacra  Scala  is,  as  it  were,  the  first  step  in  that  dark 
descent  of  horrors.  But  "  our  Rock  is  not  as  their  rock." 
He  "  Who  willeth  not  the  death  of  a  sinner  "  doth  not 
even  willingly  "  grieve  the  children  of  men."  The  sorrows 
which  He  sends,  mixing,  as  He  can,  sweetness  in  the  cup, 
His  fatherly  hand  (could  we  see  it)  trembling  as  He  holds 
it  to  our  lips,  are  enough.  Let  us  not  wrong  Him  by 
the  thought  that  even  in  them  He  chastens  us  "  for  His 
own  pleasure,"  far  less  that  for  His  pleasure  He  wills  that 
we  should  chasten  ourselves.  The  gods  of  the  heathen 
may  delight  in  such  homage  as  the  ascent  of  the  Sacra 
Scala.  But  "  richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration  "  to 
our  God. 


I 


146 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A     SUNDAY      IN      ROME. 

"  The  Lord  hath  given  you  His  Sabbaths."— Exod.  xvi.  29. 

It  was  a  bright,  hot  morning  when  I  went  to  the  English 
church,  just  outside  the  Porta  del  Popolo.  In  the  centre  of 
the  piazza  of  the  same  name  is  the  obelisk  which  was 
brought  from  Egypt  at  the  same  time  as  the  one  now 
standing  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  Paris.  I  had  met 
at  Florence  the  clergyman  recently  appointed  to  this 
English  church,  as  also  the  younger  minister,  appointed 
as  his  assistant.  The  service  is  held  in  a  large  room  up 
a  flight  of  steps.     The  familiar  hymn, 

"  Songs  of  praise  the  angels  sang." 
sounded  very  sweetly  there.  I  am  convinced  that  the 
English  depreciate  their  own  singing,  just  as  they  judge 
themselves  too  severely  in  some  other  branches  of  art. 
The  simplicity  and  yet  fulness  of  the  melody  in  most 
instances,  and  the  rich  tone  of  many  English  voices,  make 
our  hymnody,  at  least,  both  more  spirited  and  more  touching 
than  that  of  other  nations,  though  the  latter  may  be  more 
unerringly  correct.  I  delight  personally  in  the  plaintive 
French  and  Italian  chants  (I  speak,  of  course,  of  those 
belonging  to  the  Protestant  worship,  not  of  the  music  of 
the  Romish  cathedrals,  exquisite  in  sound,  but  not  con- 
gregational,   and   not  intended  to  be  so,  and,  therefore, 


f 


c-JUS£r 


A    SUNDAY    IN    ROME. 


147 


altogether  a  mockery),  so  like  the  wail  of  the  Highlanders 
in  their  Gaelic  hymns.  But  this  is  too  m.onotonous  not 
to  become  wearisome  for  a  constancy,  and,  like  a  uniform 
grey  sky,  produces  no  varieties  of  light  and  shade,  thus 
yielding  to  the  sweet  songs  of  our  English  Zion  as  an 
expression  of  the  numberless  phases  of  Christian 
experience. 

The  subject  of  the  Gospel  for  the  day  was  the  question 
of  the  tribute-money,  and  from  it  was  taken  the  text  of 
the  sermon—"  Render  unto  Caesar  the  things  that  are 
Caesar's,"  &c.  How  changed  is  "the  fashion  of  this 
world"  since  the  day  when  Jesus  spoke  those  words! 
Then  the  whole  known  world  was  Caesar's.  Now  the  city 
of  Caisar  is  dead  as  he  !  There  was  a  solemn  irony  in  the 
words  spoken  in  modern  Rome.  Afterwards,  I  went  round 
to  the  room  in  the  Via  del  Babuino,  where  the  Scotch 
minister,  the  Rev.  James  Lewis,  held  his  service  (which 
was  interrupted  by  the  Pope,  and  banished  to  the  precincts 
of  the  city,*  as  is  well  known,  on  the  departure  of  the 
French  in  the  month  following),  but  found  that,  his  con- 
gregation being  very  small,  he  had  himself  joined  the 
English  on  that  day.  I  then  rested  for  a  little  while  in 
the  neighbouring  gardens  of  the  Villa  Borghese.  They 
were  a  perfect  solitude  as  I  sat  in  thought  in  the  dreamy 
hush  of  the  warm  air.  The  afternoon  service  at  the 
English  church  was  terminated  by  an  animating  address 
from  the  younger  of  the  two  new  clergymen,  and  by  the 

♦  Where  it  is  now  held  just  outside  the  Porta  del  Popolo —oppo- 
site the  English  church. 

l2      _ 


148 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


ever-thrilling  words  of  that   sweet  hymn  written  by  the 
Rev.  F.  Lyte  shortly  before  his  death  abroad. 

"  Abide  with  me  ;  fast  falls  the  eventide ; 
The  darkness  thickens,— Lord  with  me  abide. 
When  other  helpers  fail  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  O,  abide  with  me." 

1  wish  to  be  perfectly  accurate  in  every  detail,  and 
therefore  say  that  now,  while  writing,  I  am  uncertain 
whether  the  final  hymn  was  the  one  just  alluded  to,  or 
the  kindred  one  of  Keble's — 

"  Sun  of  my  soul,  thou  Saviour  dear !  " 

It  was  still  bright  when  the  service  was  over,  and  I  had 
a  fancy  to   read  some   of  the  "Pilgrim's   Progress"  in 
Italian,  if  daylight  permitted,  amid  the  ruins  of  the  Colos- 
seum.    I,  therefore,  made  my  way  as  quickly  as  possible  to 
the  Capitol,  and  thence  towards  that  mighty  wreck,  but  as 
the  day  was   beginning  to  wane,  stayed  my  steps  ere  I 
reached  it,  and  sat  for  a  little  on  the  stone  coping  sur- 
rounding the  church  of   San   Adriano.     This    church  is 
said  to  occupy  the  place  of  the  Temple  of  Antoninus  and 
Faustina,  and,  indeed,  to  be  itself  part  of  the  remains  of 
that  edifice.     Pillars,  evidently  of  very  ancient  date,  some 
whole   and  some  broken,  are   seen   within  the   enclosure 
surrounded  by  the  coping.     I  was  soon  in  the  company 
of  Christian  and  Hopeful.     But  twilight  began  quickly  to 
descend.     A  man  with  a  long  rod  came  up  and  set  light 
to   the   swung  lamp    suspended  over   my  head.     French 
Soldiers  came  by,  and  I  saw  I  must  retrace  my  steps.     I 


A    SUNDAY    IN    ROME. 


149 


was  still  too  much  of  a  stranger  in  Rome  to  find  easily 
the  directest  road,  which  lay  down  the  Corso ;  besides 
which,  I  longed  for  another  sight  of  the  Colosseum  be- 
neath the  evening  sky.  So,  passing  under  the  Arch  of 
Titus,  I  again  beheld,  for  a  few  moments,  that  ruin  of 
ruins,  and  then  tried  to  find  the  first  turning  which  would 
take  me  to  the  English  quarter  of  the  city.  I  fancied  at 
the  time  that  I  was  without  the  walls,  but  it  was  not  so, 
as  all  that  part  is  included  within  their  circuit.  Still  that 
quarter  of  Rome  is  desolate  and  silent,  belonging,  as  it  does, 
to  the  old  world  rather  than  the  new.  A  French  boulevard 
of  young  trees  led  along  a  country  road,  past  the  Arch  of 
Constantine.  The  French  bugle-call  sounded  its  empty 
fanfarronade  as  carelessly  as  in  the  woods  of  Vincennes. 
But  here  the  rappel  was  for  the  exchange  of  guards  at 
that  Colosseum  whose  fall  will  mark  the  falling  of  a 
world.  Rome  was  so  "triste"  to  the  French.  Would 
that  the  day  would  come  when  they  would  no  longer 
insult  her  sadness  with  their  ignorant  levity.*  Then 
might  she  arise  to  life  again,  and  to  a  joy  as  yet  to  her 
unknown. 

I  took  my  way  along  a  sort  of  lane,  hedge-bordered, 
seemingly,  however,  without  coming  any  nearer  to  the 
frequented  part  of  the  city.  Though  walking  rapidly,  I 
noticed  a  shadow  crossing  mine  as  it  was  projected  for- 
wards by  the  unfrcquent  lamps.  At  length  I  stood  and 
addressed  its  possessor  (if  that  is  the  right  word  as  to  the 

*  The  bodily  presence  of  the  French  is  now  withdrawn.    But,  alas ! 
Rome  remains  under  the  protection  of  France.     March  1868. 


150 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL . 


ownership  of  a  shadow),  in  Italian,  saying  that  if  he  con- 
tinued to  follow  me  I  should  change  my  road,  a  somewhat 
empty  threat  under  the  circumstances.     The  shadow  then 
disappeared  for  a  little.     Then  a  group  of  soldiers  went 
by,  and  the  shadow  returned,  and  a  voice,  whose   tone 
inspired  confidence,  said,  "  You  asked  me  why  I  followed 
you  ;  did  you  see  who  passed  us  just  now  ?  '*     '  Soldiers,' 
I  replied.     "  Papal  Zouaves,"  said  my  companion,  "  and 
if  you  knew  what  I  do,  you  would  be  aware  that  they  are 
not  the  most  desirable  persons  for  a  lady  to  encounter  on 
a  lonely  road.     I  see  you  are  English.     I  have  received 
much  kindness  from  the  English,  and  would  gladly  render 
one  of  them  a  service."     I  then  gratefully  accepted  his 
escort  to  the  point  whither  I  was  going.     He  quickly  led 
me  across  from  that  country-path,  and  we  were  soon  by 
the  Fountain  of  Trevi.     On  our  way  we  had  some  con- 
versation, most  of  which  shall  be  reserved  for  the  next 
chapter.     He  told  me  he   was    a    Garibaldian,  and  had 
fought  under  Garibaldi   at  the  time  of  the   memorable 
occupation  of  Rome  by  Mazzini  and  Garibaldi,  in  1848-49 
— ^that  space  so  short,  but  so  glorious.     He  said  he  was  a 
peasant,   and  had  been    employed  in  the   service  of  an 
English  family,  who  had  now  left  Rome.     I  asked  him 
if  he   could   read,    and   had  a   Bible.     He   told  me  his 
English  friends  had  given  him  a  Gospel  of  St.  John,  in 
Italian,  which  he  read.     '  Do  you  ever  attend  the  English 
service  ? '  I  inquired.     "  If  any  but  foreigners  go  there, 
the  world  does  not  see  them  again,"  he  said.     *'  Those 
F>ench  gendarmes  are  stationed  at  the  door  to  watch  if 


i 


A    SUNDAY    IN    ROME. 


151 


^ 


'  »J 


any  Roman  enters.  If  he  does,  he  must  take  the  conse- 
quences." 

Thus  does  France  support  the  Papacy ;  thus  are  French 
men  of  blood  in  league  with  those  Scribes  and  Pharisees 
of  the  present,  who  may  surely  hear  the  voice  if  they  will, 
*'  Woe  unto  you,  ye  blind  guides,  who  take  away  the  key 
of  knowledge  !  ye  enter  not  in  yourselves,  and  those  that 
would  enter  in,  ye  hinder  !  " 

I  entreated  my  Garibaldian  companion  to  study  the 
tiny  treasure  his  English  friends  had  given  him.  No 
priest  can  bar  the  pearly  gates,  nor  close  the  door  which 
is  Jesus  Christ,  by  Whom,  "  if  any  man  enter  in  he  shall 
be  saved."  I  reached  Rome  in  safety,  thanks  to  my  kind 
escort,  and  night  soon  fell  upon  my  Sunday  in  Rome. 
My  rest  was  not  perfect ;  some  things  I  had  heard  dis- 
turbed it.     To  these  we  will  come  in  the  next  chapter. 


152 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITA  I- 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE    llOMANS. 

"  Let  us  walk  up  Fleet  street,  and  see  men,  sir."— Z>r.  Johnson. 
The  Garibaldian  said,  as  may  be  remembered,  that  if  any 
Roman  were  known  to  attend  the  English  church,  the 
world  would  lose  sight  of  him.  "  There  is  a  church  be- 
hind St.  Peter's,"  he  told  me,  "  to  which  offenders  of  that 
sort  are  removed.*  In  1848  we  found  men  there  half- 
buried— that  is,  interred  to  the  half  of  their  bodies  in  the 
stone.  Of  course  We  freed  them,  but  there  are  doubtless 
others  in  their  condition  at  this  time."  '  Do  you  mean 
to  say  there  are  such  noiv  ?'  I  said.  '  Why  do  you  not  go 
in  a  body  and  storm  the  church  ?  I  will  lead  you.'  "  If 
we  went  before  we  were  able,''  he  replied,  "  the  French 
would  be  down  upon  us,  and  we  should  do  harm  instead 
of  good.     But  we  are  readt/  when  the  time  comes." 

October,  1867,  asks,  were  they  ready  ?  If  not,  let  these 
other  words  of  his  give  the  reason—"  We  are  half- 
starved."  And  it  is  so.  The  poverty  of  the  Romans 
(the  cardinals  and  priests,  nuns  and  foreigners  excepted) 
is  something  incredible.  The  princes  themselves  share  it, 
thanks  to  their  idleness;  but  since  they  dread  exertion 
even  more   than   starvation,  we   will   not   include   them 

*  His  allusion  must  have  been  to  the  ?ant'  Uffizio— the  Holy 
Office  or  Inquisition. 


THE    ROMANS. 


153 


among  the  sufferers.  But  the  enslavers  of  the  Roman 
people  have  known  well  how  to  keep  them  in  bondage. 
Their  enslavers  are  the  Pope  and  his  train,  who  "  eat  the 
fat,  and  clothe  themselves  with  the  wool,  but  feed  not  the 
flock."  By  almost  entirely  intercepting  communication 
with  the  outer  world,  by  the  discouragement  of  industry 
in  consequence  of  that  interception,  as  well  as  from  other 
causes,  while  the  demoralising  and  ruinous  lottery  is  made 
a  public  institution,  the  people  of  Rome  are  kept  at  once 
helpless  and  degraded.  Little  suffices  in  that  climate  to 
support  mere  life,  but  the  people  have  not  actually  suf- 
ficient food  to  maintain  physical  energy.  "  Man  does  not 
live  by  bread  alone''  but  by  God's  ordinance  his  body  does 
subsist  partly  by  bread — i.e.,  food.  The  Romans  are  in 
chains  none  the  less  real  because  not  forged  of  iron.  That 
they  all  do  not  feel  them,  proves  only  the  more  certainly 
the  reality  of  the  bondage,  which  in  some  has  produced 
moral  as  well   as  mental  and  physical  paralysis.     They 

MUST  BE  FREED,  FOR  THEY  CANNOT  FREE  THEMSELVES.   For 

this  reason,  among  many  others,  the  enterprise  of  Gari- 
baldi ought  to  have  received  the  armed  aid  of  all  Italy, 
and  the  undeviating  moral  support  of  every  nation,  of 
England  especially.  Her  moral  support,  at  least  that  of 
those  of  her  children  worthy  of  the  name,  it  indeed  had.  But 
let  it  be  hoped  that  when  again  the  dungeon-door  of  Rome 
shakes  on  its  iron  hinges,  England's  voice,  as  the  voice  of 
one  man,  may  bid  God  speed  to  him  who  would  turn  the 
bolt  and  set  free  the  prisoners.  True,  what  Rome  wants 
is   God's  own  life-giving   word.      But    Garibaldi,  while 


154 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


hating  priestcraft,  has  always  encouraged  the  circulation 
of  the  Scriptures.  Himself  surely  ready  to  "  receive  the 
kingdom  of  God  as  a  little  child,"  he  is  also  ready  to  help 
forward  all  whom  he  sees  to  be  tinithful  and  anxious  to 
spread  the  truth.  An  honest  nature  like  his  knows 
honesty  at  a  glance,  and  at  once  responds  to  it.  He  is  no 
infidel.  Though  he  may  lorg  have  stood  (and  should  it 
be  so  the  wonder  is  not  great)  with  Pilate's  question  on 
his  lips,  yet  is  he  willing  to  learn,  and  to  let  others  learn 
of  Him,  Who  is  "  the  Way,  the  Life,  the  Truth." 

The  Romans  are  a  somewhat  heavy,  silent  race,  very 
unlike  the  sprightly  mercurial  Italians  of  the  south,  the 
graceful  Venetians,  and  the  acute  Florentines,  and  very 
like  what  the  English  would  be  in  their  condition.  The 
old  Roman  stuff  is  still  perceptible  in  their  very  solidity. 
But  alas  !  that  which  was  the  inertia  of  determination,  is 
now  the  inertia  of  torpor — almost  of  despair. 

"  Is  it  lawful  for  you  to  scourge  a  man  that  is  a  Roman, 
and  uncondemned  ?  " 

Is  this  the  city,  is  this  the  race,  that  made  others  to  fear 
because  of  injustice,  or  hasty  violence,  done  to  men  "  being 
Romans  ?^^  Alas  !  should  not  Romans  have  some  regard, 
some  chance  of  rightful  judgment  now  ?  The  whole  civi- 
lised world  owes  a  mighty  debt  to  Rome,  who  gave  it  the 
example,  and  bequeathed  it  the  laws  of  justice,  if  not  of 
mercy.  Now  no  stripes  are  too  many  for  these  Roman 
citizens.  *' Civis  Romanus  sum"  is  now  a  plaint  rather 
than  a  boast.  If  to  see  ancient  Rome  be  sad,  to  see 
modern  Rome  is  sadder  still.     But  I  say,  while  this  con- 


THE    ROMANS. 


155 


tinues,  Italy  is  neither  free  nor  safe.  Some  of  the 
Romans,  at  least,  are  ready  to  receive  the  gospel.  While 
the  hateful  system  of  Romanism  is  destroyed,  the  City  of 
Rome  may  be  spared,  and  many  of  the  Romans  be  "  free- 
born"  of  the  new  Jerusalem.  For  this,  there  must  be  the 
"  entrance  of  God's  word,"  which  ''  giveth  light  and  un- 
derstanding." There  are  those  ready  to  receive  it. 
When  I  spoke  to  Cesari  respecting  the  Sacra  Scala,  and 
of  the  great  message  I  believed  to  be  needed  by  Roman- 
ists— viz.,  that  the  work  of  Jesus  for  our  salvation  is 
"'finished^'"  needing  acceptance  only,  not  addition,  he  re- 
plied, *'  Consummatum  est."  The  answer  showed  thought- 
fulness,  and  a  mind  ready  to  embrace  the  truth,  when  once 
assured  it  was  the  truth.  In  fact,  that  is  what  the  Romans 
need;  they  have  been  long  "wearied  with  lies,"  long 
sickened  with  heartless  forms,  long  depressed  by  poverty 
and  ignorance.  They  are  waiting  (not  as  the  frivolous 
Athenians)  to  see  and  hear  "some  new  thing."  For 
what  they  want  would  to  them  be  new — 

"  The  old,  old  story 
Of  Jesus  and  His  love." 


150 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


FROM    TERNI    TO    AROXA. 


157 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

FROM      TERNI      TO      A  R  O  N  A. 

"  Beloved,  thou  docst  faithfully  whatsoever  thou  doest  to  the 
brethren  and  to  strancrers,  which  have  borne  witness  to  thy  charity ; 
whom  if  thou  bring  forward  on  their  journey  after  a  godly  sort  thou 
Shalt  do  well." 

I  LEFT  Rome  on  the  9th  of  November,  reaching  Terni  in 
the  evening.  The  next  day  was  Saturday.  Time  now 
rendered  it  necessary  to  speed  to  England  with  all  possible 
despatch,  which,  however,  did  not  supersede  the  greater 
necessity  of  a  Sunday  of  rest.  Where  was  that  to  be 
spent  ?  It  was  impossible  to  reach  ^lilan  in  time,  but 
Bologna  could  be  attained.  I  therefore  left  the  next 
morning  for  that  city,  via  Foligno,  by  the  earliest  train, 
which  was  not  very  early,  and  which  would  have  permitted 
me  to  join  an  excursion  to  the  celebrated  Cascata  delle 
Marmore,  but  that  I  was  then  unequal  to  bear  either  the 
fatigue  or  the  expense.  Terni  itself  is  highly  picturesque, 
and  the  Hotel  dell'Inghilterra  was  a  pleasant  halting- 
place,  because  of  the  attention  and  courtesy  of  the  people. 
But,  after  Rome,  it  was  cold,  as  what  place  with  any  other 
climate  than  that  indescribable  one  would  not  have  been  ? 
Colder  and  colder,  more  dreary,  though  stronger  grew  the 
air  and  the  scene,  till  at  length  Bologna  was  reached,  past 
midnight.     I  went  to  the  Hotel  dei   Quattro  Pellegrini, 


I 


and  when  I  at  length  lay  down,  overcome  by  fatigue,  fell 
into  a  slumber,  from  wliicli  I  did  not  awake  till  the  middle 
of  the  next  day.      Accustomed  to  the  brilliant  sun    of 
Rome,   the  bright  shining  gave  me  no  warning    of  the 
hour,    and  I  went   down,  as   to  breakfast,    supposing    I 
had  time  to  set  out  for  the  morning  Protestant  service. 
However,  when  I  discovered  the  state  of  things,  I  did  not 
quarrel  with  the  large  measure  which  God  had  given  me 
of  His  good  and  necessary  gift  of  sleep,  but  enquired  the 
way  to  the  place  of  assembling  of  the  Italian  Protestants 
that  I  might  start  for  it  after  needful  refreshment.     These 
enquiries  gave  the  opportunity  for  some  serious  conversa- 
tion w  ith  my  attendant,  who  was  intelligent,  though,  alas  ! 
like  most  Italians,  well  nigh   despairing  of  arriving  at 
certain  truth.     I  found  him  (and  should  judge  that  it  was 
so  with  the  Bolognese  in  general),  a  strong  and  hopeful 
patriot,  fully  persuaded  that  Rome  would  be  the  acknow- 
ledged capital  of  Italy  in  a  very  short  while.     Bologna 
has  herself  not  long  escaped  from  thraldom,  and  remembers 
•  what  it  was.     She  has,  therefore,  the  vivid  sympathy  which 
springs  only  from  the  experience  of  like  suffering.     I  set 
forth  as  soon  as  possible,  not  having  been  able  to  obtain 
very  clear  directions,  and  pursuing  my  search  in  conse- 
quence by  enquiries  of  those  I  met,  some  of  whom  aided 
me,  whilst  others  superciliously  declared  their  ignorance 
of  such  a  place  as  I  was  seeking.     Thus  I  walked  on  along 
the  cloister-like  arcades  of  Bologna,  which  afforded  some 
protection   from   the   drizzling    rain   which   was    falling 
quietly  but  incessantly  through  the  cold  grey   air.     At 


I 


158 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


length,  on  asking  a  gentleman,  who  was  coming  down  a 
wide  stone  staircase,  if  he  could  inform  me  where  was 
the  room  for  which  I  was  looking,  he  replied,  **  Yes,  it  is 
here,"  and,  turning  back,  led  me  up  the  stairs  to  an 
apartment  which,  from  the  benches  and  books  about,  was 
evidently  used  as  a  school-room.  A  young  lady  came  in, 
whom  I  addressed  in  Italian,  till,  on  the  gentleman  who 
had  guided  me  saying  she  would  prefer  English,  I  changed 
the  tongue.  And  indeed  that  fresh,  child-like  face  could 
belong  only  to  a  daughter  of  the  isles,  recognizable  under 
any  sky.  She  responded  joyfully  to  the  loved  sounds,  and 
led  me  into  the  inner  room,  where  were  a  gentleman  and 
one  or  two  little  ones,  plainly  her  own  husband  and 
children.  The  name  Wall  was  at  length  mentioned,  and 
I  found  I  was  in  the  company  of  the  Rev.  James  Wall  of 
Bologna,  an  English  evangelist,  who  had  long  been  known 
to  me  (through  "  The  Revival ")  by  report  as  a  promoter 
of  Christ's  cause  in  Italy,  but  whose  presence  in  that  town 
I  had  forgotten  when  I  reached  it.  I  attended  the  service 
in  the  evening.  The  address,  which  was  simple  and 
forcible,  was  given  by  an  Italian  on  "  God  is  love."  This 
is  the  truth  which  the  loving  Italian  heart  needs  to  know ; 
the  truth  which  Romanism  systematically  obscures.  The 
preacher  supposed  an  inscription  to  have  been  discovered 
on  a  wall  in  Herculaneum  or  Pompeii,  of  which  part 
was  effaced,  leaving  only  the  words,  "  God  is  . . ."  "  What 
human  philosopher  would  ever  have  supplied  the  missing 
word?"  Ah!  that  truth  that  "God  is  Love,"  is  the 
truth  which  even  Christians  have  yet  fully  to  learn.     The 


■ 


FROM  TERNI  TO  ARONA. 


159 


congregation  was  small,  but  attentive  and  earnest,  and  the 
work  evidently  real,  and  likely  to  be  progressive. 

I  had  tea  with  this  Christian  English  family,  and  as 
my  travelling  funds  were   growing  low,  was  helped  by 
Mr.  Wall  by   a  small  loan  to  prosecute  my  journey  to 
Arona,  at  which  point  my  return-ticket  became  available. 
I  mention  this  as  an  instance  of  our  Father's  providential 
care,   and  also    of  the   thoughtful    kindness    of  practical 
Christianity.     As  I  most  truly  wrote  to  Mr.  Wall,  when 
returning  to  him  the  money  from   England,  I  felt  that  I 
received  it  from  the  hand  of  Jesus  himself.     I  left  Bologna 
early  the  next  morning,  having  at  first  a  party  of  soldiers 
as  my  travelling  companions.     I  had  some  conversation 
with  them  on  the  most  important  of  subjects,  meeting  in 
response   with    thoughtful    attention    from   some,  whilst 
others  manifested  strange  ignorance,  asking  me  if  I  had 
seen  the  saint  of  those  parts,  a  young  woman  who  managed 
to  subsist  without  eating  !     I  reached  Milan  about  4  p.m., 
having  to  wait  till  6  o'clock  before  the  train  proceeded. 
The  increasing  cold  began  to  tell  upon  me  very  painfully, 
and  the  draughty  station  of  Milan  was  anything  but  com- 
fortable.    This  was  more  than  atoned  for,  however,  by  the 
grateful  recognition  of  the  railway-porter,  to  whom  I  had 
given  a  portion  of  Scripture  on  a  previous  occasion.     One 
of  the  stations  on  the  way  to  Arona  was  Novara,  of  sad 
memory.     Here  the  train  stopped  a  little  while,  and  I  had 
a  short  conversation  with  a  guard,  as  it  seemed  that  some 
small  mistake  had  occurred  about  a  coupon  of  my  ticket. 
*  This  is  rather  annoying,'   I  said.      *  But   what  of  not 


/ 


IQQ  ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 

living  the  right  ticket  for  Heaven?     That  -  more  im- 
portant/   I  then  spoke  of  Christ,  as  Himself  both  the  Way 
and  the  Title  to  admittance  there,  and  deplored  the  general 
indifference  of  the  Italians  on  spiritual  matters.     "  Don't 
you  think  you  .'ould  be  indifferent,"  he  replied,  '' if  you 
had  heard  all  the  nonsense  that  we  have  from  our  earliest 
years r'     'No,'  I  said,  'I  think  not;   I  should  be  sure 
there  was  some  truth  behind  all  those  shams.'     The  man 
pressed  my  hand,  and  the  train  rolled   on,  ^--mg   at 
Arona,onthe  Lago  Maggiore,  at  11  p.m.     Here  I  had 
some  tea  at  the  small  but  comfortable  station-hotel,  where 
I  met  with  much  kindness,  and  was  wrapped  in  a  blanket 
(the    cold   now    being    severe)    for   the    passage    of    the 
Simplon.     Thus  equipped,  I  entered  the  diligence  about 
midnight,   an  elderly  French-speaking    Swiss  bemg  my 
first  travelling  companion. 


THE    8IMPL0N, 


161 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE    SIMPLON. 

♦•  I  sing  the  almighty  power  of  God, 
Who  made  the  mountains  rise." 

The  Alps  !— the  alabaster  gates  of  Italy— the  gleaming 
portals  of  her  palace  of  beauty  !— how  fair,  how  solemn, 
how  awful  they  are  ! 

About  five  in  the  morning,  of  Nov.  13,  the  diligence 
reached  Domo  d'Ossola,  and,  after  a  short  time  for  re- 
freshment at  the  inn,  set  forth  again.  My  travelling 
companion  now,  the  Swiss  having  departed,  was  a  young 
Italian  returning  to  his  work  in  Paris,  having  joined  the 
army  in  Italy  during  fighting  time,  and  expressing  his 
readiness  to  do  so  again  should  it  recommence. 

This  passage  of  the  Simplon  was  something  altogether 
different  to  me  from  that  of  the  St.  Gothard.  Then  the 
month  was  September,  and  I  was  going  into  Italy.  Now 
it  was  November,  and  I  was  coming /rowi  Italy  northwards. 
Then  the  diligence  sped  on  as  if  borne  along  by  winged 
steeds,  beneath  the  sky  of  night,  lit  by  the  mystic  moon. 
Now  the  snow  had  fallen,  rendering  the  transit  dangerous, 
except  at  the  slowest  jog-trot  along  the  frosted  path ;  and 
though  this  pass  was  crossed  by  day,  the  light  came 
chiefly  from  the  snow  beneath,  and  the  snow-filled  clouds 

M 


l«jqHu«an!IS«iiw<l><j 


1G2 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


above.  We  went  under  many  a  tunnel,  or  "  foro,"  accord- 
ing to  my  Italian  friend,  who  pointed  out  to  me  several 
places  where  holes  in  the  almost  perpendicular  rock 
showed  the  work,  and  alas  !  the  fury  of  man,  for  they  had 
been  fighting-posts  in  the  time  of  the  first  Napoleon,  and, 
perhaps,  some  of  them  even  in  the  time  of  Hannibal. 
Where  will  not  men  fight  ?  What  Eden  by  its  loveliness, 
what  Alpine  solitude  by  its  sublimity,  can  exorcise  those 
"lusts  which  war  in  the  members,"  and  which  project 
themselves  without  in  the  fighting  and  making  war,  the 
killing  and  desiring  to  have,  and  yet  not  obtaining? 
These  things  are  a  slight  satire  on  the  philosophy  of  those 
who  preach  the  regenerating  power  of  nature. 

It  strikes  one  that  this  mountain  path  was  rather  a 
round-about  way  for  a  Carthaginian  to  choose  for  entering 
Italy.     However,  "  Italia,"  as  we  cross  the  Alps, 

♦♦  Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  hght  of  ages, 

Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee.'* 

My  sufferings  soon  became  extreme,  caused,  probably, 
more  by  the  rarefied  air  than  even  by  the  excessive  cold. 
I  felt  as  though  the  veins  would  burst  from  my  temples. 
Besides,  there  was  the  excitement  of  leaving,  in  all 
j)robability  never  to  return,  Italy,  the  land  of  beauty  and 
of  mourning,  of  great  memories  and  great  sorrows — oh  ! 
that  it  may  be  of  greater  hopes  and  brighter  destinies. 
'  When  shall  we  have  left  Italy  ?'  I  said  to  my  companion, 
in  his  own  sweet  tongue.  "  Very  soon,"  he  replied. 
'  Will  there  be  any  sign  to  mark  the  transition-moment  V 
"  Yes."     '  I  feel  very  ill,'  I  said  again,  '  and  must  try  to 


} 


I 


THE    8IMPL0N. 


163 


rest ;  but  do  not  fail  to  tell  me  when  that  sign  comes. 
Not  a  very  long  time  elapsed  before  his  ''  Ecco  ! "  startled 
me.  There,  on  a  stone  like  a  grave-stone,  white  as  the 
surrounding  snow,  was  inscribed  the  simple  word  '^  Italia,'' 
1  had  left  Italy,  perhaps  for  ever.     But — 

"  Look  in  my  heart,  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it — Italy. 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she ; 
So  it  always  was,  so  it  still  will  be." 

Bobert  Browning, 

Slowly,  diligently  (is  that  the  origin  of  the  name  of  the 
conveyance  ?)  went  the  diligence.  My  feelings  of  illness 
increased  till  they  became  torture.  My  young  companion 
saw  how  greatly  I  was  suffering,  and,  at  my  request,  kindly 
pressed  my  temples  with  all  his  force,  thus  affording  me 
considerable  relief.  It  is  unlikely  that  he  will  ever  see 
these  pages,  but  if,  by  one  of  those  strange  chances  that 
yet  sometunes  occur,  he  should  do  so,  he  will  see  that  I  have 
not  forgotten  his  kindness,  as,  indeed,  I  never  shall  forget 
it.  I  felt  (although,  probably,  my  illness  was  chiefly 
nervous,  not,  therefore,  unreal)  as  though  I  owed  my  life 
to  his  kind  and  delicate  attentions,  full  of  that  respectful 
Italian  courtesy  which  is  something  by  itself,  distinct  alike 
from  the  half  timid,  half  rough  kindness  of  the  English, 
and  from  the  (sometimes)  vapid  politeness  of  the  French. 
But  I  shall  never  forget  the  physical  pain  of  that  slow 
passage  along  the  mountain-snow.  The  wide,  silent  fields 
were  to  me  like  a  white  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 
The  expression  is  a  verbal  solecism,  but  no  other  will 

M  2 


164 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


convey  my  meaning.  Up  the  distant  slope  walked  a 
shepherd,  his  sheep  following  him,  to  some  pasture  whither 
he  was  leading  them  to  feed  on  the  grass  which  is  made 
''  to  grow  upon  the  mountains."  Some  of  his  flock  were 
black,  and  all  looked  dark  against  the  snow.  He  Who 
knew  my  need  sent  me  comfort  by  the  sight.  Yes; 
*'  Thou  art  with  me.  Thy  rod  and  Thy  staff  comfort  me." 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  we  reached  a  small  hospice,  and 
left  the  diligence,  expecting  to  find  refreshment.  I  believe 
the  condottore  did  meet  with  something  somewhere  for 
himself  and  the  horses,  but  that  was  all.  A  priest  passed 
us,  crossing  the  road,  followed  by  two  large  dogs  of  the 
St.  Bernard  type.  I  entered  the  hospice,  but  no  one  was 
to  be  seen.  In  a  long,  silent  room,  with  a  long  deal  table, 
set  as  for  the  ghosts  who  alone  seemed  to  tenant  the 
apartment,  was  a  portrait  of  Napoleon,  and  a  framed 
intimation  that  he  had  caused  this  hospice  to  be  founded 
for  the  refreshment  of  travellers  on  the  model  of  that  of 
the  Great  St.  Bernard.  In  this  instance,  certainly,  the 
good  that  he  sought  to  do  has  not  (unlike  in  this  to  so 
much  of  the  evil)  "  lived  after  him."  It  was  a  dream-like 
house.  We  returned  to  the  diligence  more  chilled  than 
aught  else  by  the  exit.  The  wide  white  snow  was,  for  all 
its  dreary  silence,  broken,  though  at  unfrequent  intervals, 
by  "  clarieres "  of  grass,  green  as  that  on  which  the 
multitude  rested  while  Jesus  fed  them— so  green,  because 
ever  freshened  by  the  pure  cold  waters  of  the  snow. — 
Emeralds  set  in  frosted  silver.  Small  valleys,  where 
chalets  and  groups  of  fir  trees  rose  amid  the  sward,  and 


THE    SIMPLON. 


165 


bubbling  streamlets  made  gentle  music  to  a  constant  song 
of  peace.  The  next  halting-place  was  Brieg,  and  later  in 
the  evening  Visp,  a  contraction  from  Vispach.  Verily, 
the  names,  like  everything  else,  were  changed  from  Italy. 
I  met  with  much  kind  attention  at  Visp,  and  was  revivified 
by  a  warm  fire  and  some  hot  soup.  Sion  was  reached 
about  an  hour  before  midnight.  The  place,  which  appeared 
all  unlike  its  name,  was  wrapped  in  the  chill  mist  of  a 
drizzling  rain,  falling  from  a  starless  sky.  I  had  lost, 
either  in  the  diligence  or  on  some  occasion  of  leaving  it,  a 
little  book,  which  I  valued  much,  and  stood  for  some  time 
in  the  rain  seeking  for  it  in  the  diligence,  but  in  vain. 
The  people  were  churlish,  and  altogether  unlike  their 
compeers  at  the  previous  inns.  Here,  also,  I  was  obliged 
to  part  with  my  friendly  blanket,  that  the  returning 
diligence  might  take  it  back  to  Arona. 

This  change  did  not,  of  course,  improve  the  physical 
condition  in  which,  a  little  after  4  the  next  morning, 
I  entered  the  train,  for  which  the  diligence  was  now 
exchanged. 

I  cannot  quit  the  Alps  in  these  memorial  notices  with- 
out an  illusion  to  the  water-colour  drawings  of  Elijah 
Walton.  He  is,  verily,  the  pictorial  prophet  of  those 
mountains.  His  "  Peaks  and  Valleys  of  the  Alps,"  and 
his  "Dolomites"  (a  name  given,  I  believe,  to  a  class  of 
hills  of  mountain -limestone),  alone  of  any  paintings  I  ever 
saw  (those  of  Turner,  of  course,  excepted),  are  as  faithful 
transcripts  as  mortal  hand  can  give  of  the  mountains  of 
God,   in   their   sublimity,   their    holiness,    above   all   in 


166 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


their  spirituality,  and  their  tenderness.  For  what  in 
tender  glory  (save  sunset  and  moonlight  on  the  sea)  can 
equal  the  rose-blooms — the  flushes  as  of  some  heart- 
meaning  chasing  a  spirit's  paleness— of  the  lofty  hills  ? 
Next  to  the  tenderness  of  the  mighty  ocean  is  the  tender- 
ness of  the  strong  mountains.  Elijah  Walton  gives  this. 
He  paints  the  mountains  as  a  lover,  and  so  with  the 
knowledge  and  the  truth  of  love.  With  most  other 
painters  the  mountains  are  mere  agglomerations  of  sand- 
stone or  granite,  lofty  but  lifeless.  With  him  they  are 
God's  creations,  and  therefore  instinct  with  life  and  with 
expression  ;  ethereal  as  a  breath,  and  yet  firm  as  the 
Word  of  Him  Who  made  them,  and  Who  for  His  truth 
and  everlasting  strength  is  to  us  "  The  Rock  of  Ages." 


n 


I 


NEUFCHaTEL  and  the  return  to  ENGLAND.    167 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

NEUFCHATEL  AND  THE  RETURN  TO  ENGLAND. 

"  I'd  *  not  exchange  my  England's  sullen  skies, 
And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  vines, — nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 
Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bowers. —  Cowper. 

*'  By  the  good  hand  of  my  God  upon  me." 

The  train  skirted  the  eastern  shore  of  Lake  Leman,  so 
that  I  re-traversed  the  lovely  road  past  Villeneuve,  Mon- 
treux,  Clarens,  and  Vevay,  this  time,  however,  too 
exhausted  and  ill  much  to  enjoy  the  prospect.  At  length, 
about  two  in  the  afternoon  of  November  14,  we  reached 
Neufchatel.  I  was  physically  unequal  to  explore  the 
town  during  the  hours  of  waiting  for  the  train  to  proceed, 
but  the  view  from  the  railway  hotel  of  the  deep  blue  lake 
and  opposite  shore  was  very  beautiful.  Evening  falling 
soon  after,  we  set  forth  again  about  4  o'clock ;  the  out- 
ward landscape  was  but  dimly  visible  as  far  as  Dijon, 
where  we  stopped  about  11  p.m.  The  night  of  the  14th 
of  November,  1866,  was  that  of  the  splendid  display  of 
meteors.  I  did  not  hear  of  them  till  afterwards,  and 
they  were  invisible  to  me  through  the  tiresome  despotism 

*  I  think  Cowper  would  forgive  me  this  alteration  (not  correction ) 
of  his  line,  of  which  the  reason  will  be  obvious. 


'.  M 


168 


ITALY    AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


of  French  arrangements,  by  which  we  were  locked  in  the 
waiting-room  till  the  night-train  arrived  to  convey  us  to 
Paris. 

How  searching  was  the  cold  of  the  terminus  in  that 
city  of  the  Chemin  de  fer  de  Strasbourg,  at  seven  o'clock 
the  next  morning!  I  was,  however,  pleasantly  surprised 
to  see  Mr.  Cook,  who  was  coming  back  from  a  second 
trip  with  a  small  party,  and  who  was  also  glad  to  find  me 
safely  returning  from  my  adventurous  expedition;  to 
accomplish  the  latter  part  whereof,  I  had  been  left  at 
Venice.  He  had  been  again  at  Venice,  and  I  learned 
from  him  that  Captain  Scott  had  died  at  the  Hotel 
Barbesi  the  day  before  the  triumphal  entry  of  Victor 
Emmanuel.  Verily,  with  respect  to  the  noblest  earthly 
object,  '^Man  walketh  in  a  vain  show,  and  disquieteth 
himself  in  vain." 

A  day  in  Paris,  with  the  quiet  domestic  comfort  of  the 
Hotel  de  Londres,  recruited  me  somewhat ;  and,  on  the 
following  day,  after  a  stormy  passage  from  Dieppe,  which 
lasted  from  6  in  the  morning  to  3  p.m.,  I  trod  once  again 
the  shores  of  our  own  blessed  England.  It  was  blowing 
what  the  sailors  called  three  gales,  and  the  sea  was  rough 
and  even  dangerous.  Being  almost  proof  against  the 
"  mal  de  mer,"  I  remained  on  deck,  and  hailed  with 
thankfulness  those  white  cliff's  of  Newhaven,  which  are 
the  only  outward  feature  of  resemblance  to  the  opposite 
coast. 


CONCLUSION. 


169 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


CONCLUSION. 


"  Italy  for  the  Italians."    "  Viva  Italia !  Una,  una,  una." 
"  The  perfect  law  of  liberty." 

Difficulties  postponed  are  always  increased.  The  rill  of 
hindrance  which  might  have  been  crossed  at  a  bound, 
becomes  an  ocean  which  it  is  dangerous  to  traverse. 
When  did  the  Roman  question  first  arise?  We  may 
reply,  from  the  unhappy  moment  when  Constantine  made 
the  seat  of  his  empire  (the  so-called  new  capital)  else- 
where— a  mistake  which  was  consummated  when  Phocas, 
emperor  of  the  East,  to  indemnify  Rome  for  her  lost 
glories,  and  that  she  might  yearn  after  them  no  more, 
conferred  on  her  bishops  privileges  which  were  not  his  to 
bestow,  and  gave  to  the  growing  strength  of  anti-Christ 
the  power  to  speak  "  great  things,"  blasphemies  insulting 
to  God,  and  ruinous  to  men.  It  is  not  the  temporal  power 
of  the  Pope  alone  which  needs  destruction.  The  spiritual 
power  is  the  soul  of  the  evil.  This,  however,  it  is  beyond 
man's  power  to  destroy.  The  Lord  Himself  will  "consume 
it  with  the  spirit  of  His  mouth,  and  will  destroy  it  with 


470 


ITALY   AND    HER    CAPITAL. 


the  brightness  of  His  coming."  Nevertheless,  with  Eome 
free  from  the  Popes,  there  would  be  some  hope  of  freedom 
and  life  for  Italy.  I  know  not  whether  what  is  so  de- 
sirable can  be  accomplished,  or  whether  the  devil's 
Chassepot-rifle  will  always  win  the  day.  But  this  I  say — 
without  Rome  there  can  be  no  Italy  for  the  Italians,  and 
no  peace  nor  safety  for  that  long-tormented  land.  Rome 
is  the  heart  of  Italy ;  a  man  could  no  more  live  without 
his  heart  than  Italy  can  live  without  Rome.  She  was,  is, 
and  must  ever  be,  her  capital.  Through  all  these  long 
years  she  has  been  the  capital  of  her  sorrow  and  her 
struggling  pain;  and  if  Italy  is  at  length  to  arise  to 
national  life,  she  must  be  the  capital  of  her  joy. 

The  glorious  gospel  of  God,  almost,  if  not  quite,  entirely 
excluded  from  Rome,  gives  national  as  well  as  individual 
liberty,  because  its  principles  are  those  of  the  truest 
liberty,  and  because  in  its  reception  He  is  received  to 
Whom  it  belongs  to  give  liberty  to  the  captives.  Let  the 
gospel  have  free  course  in  Rome,  and  her  bondage  is  over. 
But  how  can  this  be  effected  ?  That  true  patriot,  who  at 
all  risks  has  just  sought  again  to  save  her,  has  ever 
encouraged,  and  will  ever  encourage,  the  spread  of  God's 
truth  with  a  readiness  equal  to  that  with  which  he  seeks 
the  destruction  of  devilish  and  human  lies.  Where  Gari- 
baldi has  marched,  the  Bible  has  followed.  In  a  recent 
address  to  Glasgow  he  speaks,  and  truly,  of  the  atheism 
produced  in  men  long  deluded  and  wearied  with  Romish 
error.  Atheism,  alas  !  does  number  its  thousands  in  Italy 
and  in  Rome.     But  Garibaldi  is  no  atheist. 


CONCLUSION. 


171 


Would  that  I  had  the  power  as  I  have  the  will  to  enlist 
the  prayers,  and  sympathies,  and  efforts,  of  all  Christ's 
freemen  for  Italy — above  all,  for  Rome — that  she,  still 
bound  in  the  dark  dungeon,  may  know  the  truth,  and  the 
truth  may  make  her  free. 


THE    END. 


i^ia^iS^ifeaiiM^iii^fiii! 


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LONDON 

KELLY  &  CO.,  PRINTERS 

GATF   STREET,  LINCOLN'S  INN   FItLDS.  W  C 


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